Tears of the Phoenix
by Aradia17
Summary: They use my name in the Light rebel camps sometimes, but when they do, it is uttered as a curse, a filthy name to be spat rather than spoken: Hermione Granger, traitor to the Light side. But they don't understand. No one does. No one can. HHr
1. Facing the Past

**A/N:** This fic has undergone editing to correct spelling and grammar issues, and to pave over those pesky plot holes. The plot has not changed, I've simply clarified some areas that didn't make a lot of sense in its initial version. I now present to you, Tears of the Phoenix, version 2.0 (well, really, version 4.0, considering how many times I've edited this damn thing, lol).

**1**

**Facing the Past**

"_And you wake up to realize_

_That your standard of living_

_Somehow got stuck on survive."_

_--Jewel_

The rising of the sun is a magnificent thing. It is a sight of beauty, splendor, and—for me—hope. It gives me the feeling that there is a tomorrow, no matter how strongly I might believe the contrary. It's easy to lose your faith in a position like mine, but the sun's first rays sneaking over the distant hilltops and caressing my face with their soft light can help give me back some of what I've lost. Often times, this small occurrence is the only hope I have and usually that is not enough.

On this particular morning, there is no sunrise, no first rays—at least, none visible to me. Clouds are setting in as they do in winter, resembling a dense gray blanket more than anything else. I sigh as I look out the window at the gloomy dawning day. My constant, nagging feeling of hopelessness seems more prominent than ever. Not that it ever really goes away; I have not felt anything even distantly akin to joy for two years now. I stopped living then, at the end of my fifth year here at Hogwarts. Now I merely exist. Before that time, I'd never really known the difference between the two words. I'd have used them as synonyms of one another anytime. Now I know the difference. To live is to have reason to awaken, even if that reason isn't always good. To exist is to force yourself to make it through each day, doing so only because you are too meek and frightened to do anything more drastic. It is when your entire life has stopped having any meaning, when all dreams of the future are lost in a bleak void. When it takes every last bit of strength to wake up and force yourself to live through one more day and when you don't see any difference between life and death.

Maybe I've even stopped existing. What's beyond that, I don't know; but whatever there is, that's where I am. I'm no more than a shell of my former self. I've been forced to block out happy memories, been trained to feel nothing. It's the only way to make it in the world I'm in. Had I spent each waking moment reminiscing of times lost, I'd have gone insane long ago. I learned that lesson the hard way, not too long after Voldemort won the war. My memories were too powerful to stop and each passing day was spent remembering until I could take the comparison of my old life to my new one no longer. I quite nearly killed myself. When I'm in one of my blacker moods, I'll often wish I had. After all, how much worse can death be? Certainly no worse than my current position.

I struggle off my window ledge and jump the two feet down to the floor. Quickly changing into my school robes, I feel glad as I always do that it is only two more months until I leave here for good. I can't stand it any longer. I once loved this castle so much, and now everything I see in my day-to-day travels sickens me. From the green bands around the cuffs of my robes to the Slytherin banners hanging high and proud in the Great Hall, everything is different. Hogwarts castle, which had before been so jolly and inviting, is now a cold and lifeless place that may as well have housed a thousand dementors. The only "happy" thoughts ventured here are thoughts of cruelty from the Death Eaters, and those are only happy in their warped minds. I am disgusted to remember that I can no longer consider myself different from them. The Dark Mark on my arm leaves no question about the fact that I am one of them. It is a fact I try hard to forget, and yet one I can never seem to tuck away.

As I join the kids in the main halls, I duck my head and keep to myself. Still, I can hear the cruel words thrown in my direction. I have no place; not a single person in this world cares whether I live or die. Actually, that's not true, I decide grimly—most would prefer me dead. My fellow students—my fellow Death Eaters, I am sorry to say—hate me. I am a joke among them. My deed to their service is well remembered, but they don't care. Each day I'm ignored and shunned, not that I mind. These people are not ones with which I would care to associate if I wasn't forced. Still, dragging on and on into months and years, their attitude toward me quickly becomes depressing.

I am suddenly slammed into a wall and my books cascade from my arms and onto the floor. Cold laughter echoes from just about everywhere as the students stop to watch me gather my fallen books. Without looking, I can pick out one voice among them, no doubt belonging to the one who'd pushed me in the first place: Draco Malfoy. His is one of the few familiar faces left here with me. He kicks the book I am reaching for and laughs again. "Go fetch, Mudblood," he jeers, to the roars of his audience.

I stand, shaking my hair behind my neck and glaring at him. "Leave me alone, Malfoy, or I promise I will hex you into next year. These may not be my surroundings, I may hate every single one of these sorry classes, but if you care to remember, I'm still top of every one them. Which is more than I can say for you."

An angry murmur runs through the crowd, which I ignore. My eyes and thoughts are trained solely on Malfoy. I can see the hatred in his eyes as he turns away. He knows I 'm right and knows that I could—and would—do as I'd threatened.

"Then leave, Mudblood. We don't want you here. Oh, that's right—your old pals don't want you, either. Kind of a sorry existence, isn't it? Having no one who cares about you. Pathetic, really." He says nothing more as he continues on down the hall. Sensing the scene is over, the rest of the gawkers begin to disperse as well, many tossing sneers and insults as me as they go.

I watch his back through eyes narrowed into slits. I kneel back down and grab the book he'd kicked—Advanced Dark Curses—and fight back my reeling emotions. It's one of the few times he's managed to get to me. His comment struck a deep wound that will most likely never heal, and it feels as though he's deepened it by several inches.

I head back the way I'd come. I'm not hungry. It's too difficult to eat surrounded by the Death Eaters anyway, too hard not to focus on Lucius Malfoy sitting tall in the Headmaster's seat at the High Table. When I am back in my dorm, I sit down on my bed and stare out the window where the first fluffy snowflakes are beginning to drift downward from their gray captor. Malfoy's words ring through my head: "_Oh_, _that's_ _right_—_your_ _old_ _pals_ _don't_ _want_ _you,_ _either_." For the first time in many months, I feel a few tears stinging at my eyes. I'd given up crying long ago, knowing it did me no good. My resolve seems to be breaking down.

Malfoy is so right that it hurts. Harry and Ron, the last I knew, were a part of some rebel group opposing Voldemort and his Death Eaters. I tried last year to write to them, some part of me hoping they'd be able to see that what I did had been to protect them. Of course, I had been hoping in vain. They didn't know, nor will they unless I tell them, which I cannot do. After many weeks, I'd gotten a return letter from Harry—a howler. His words were angry and harsh, shouted through the Great Hall like hundreds of sonic thunder blasts at once. When the letter had finally stopped and burned itself into ashes, I could feel my heart going with it. They would never give me a second chance. That was the last time I cried.

Of course, the Howler had been heard by the whole school. It is the favorite thing of my peers to throw at me, even now, after so much time. Lucius Malfoy, of course, had seen to it that I was punished painfully. If I look very closely, I can still see some of the scars. None of this bothered me though. The damage had come from the letter itself.

I'm an outcast to both sides, stuck toeing the line between the two. I'm rarely referred to by name here—usually everyone, including teachers, calls me "Mudblood." They use my name in the Light rebel camps sometimes, but when they do it is uttered as a curse, a filthy name to be spat rather than spoken: Hermione Granger—traitor to the Light side. But they don't understand. No one does. No one can.

Sometimes, such as now, I wonder why I even bother to go on. My life is meaningless. The hatred pouring in from all around me is suffocating, oppressing, nearly unbearable. I am an outcast in a world of pain, terror, and horror. The only reason those few remaining good souls choose to survive is for their friends, family, and dreams. I have none of those. I am a teenager loyal to the Light side, but not allowed to show it in a school of the Dark Arts. I suppose the answer to why I continue lies in my hope, or what little of it is left. Though I know it's not rational, I still cling to the small, vague hope that one day I will escape this pitiful existence to return to my friends on the side of good. Now I see the hopelessness in such a dream and the horizon goes dark. It is during times like these when I begin to contemplate suicide once more.

I have a knife in my trunk. I've had it for a long time, for the purpose of self-defense. It's not unheard of for one of the other students to attack me—I'm a favorite target. Lately, though, I've begun looking at that blade quite differently. I get up from my bed and open the lid of the trunk. It seems almost as if I'm on autopilot as I pick up the knife and turn it in my hands. It catches the light filtering in from my open window and glitters tantalizingly. Suddenly, there is no question in my mind. There's really no thought at all.

I walk over to the windowsill where I had stood just twenty minutes ago. I sit down in my same position and gaze out over Hogwarts grounds, trying to transform them in my mind to look as they had before. While the grounds look the same to the casual eye, they are not. It's impossible to delude myself otherwise. All I have to do is look over at the burned shell of Hagrid's hut to remember that.

I jerk my gaze away and look back at the knife. Two quick slits and it will be over. I raise the blade and press it against the skin of my right wrist. I pause a moment to look up and take a last deep breath of winter air. My eyes wander over to the Forbidden Forest for the last time.

For a moment all seems quiet and still, but a jolt of movement attracts my eyes. I have been trained to notice the slightest movement and zero in on its source impeccably. I had not lied to Malfoy—I still am top of every class. It takes me a moment to distinguish the figure, and I probably would not have been able to see it at all had it not stood frozen on open ground, staring back.

Finally, I recognize the face. The hand holding the knife loosens its grip and the blade clatters to the windowsill. The thin coating of ice on the sill propels it over the side, dropping it into a snow bank far below. I take no notice; I'm in shock.

The face belongs to a person I'd accepted that I would never see again, a friend I'd given my life for:

Harry Potter.


	2. Out of My Mind

**2**

**Out of My Mind**

"_So many questions_

_I need an answer_

_Two years later_

_You're still on my mind."_

_--Mandy Moore_

I'm shivering where I stand. It doesn't help matters that my feet, wearing tattered and hole-filled shoes, are buried in a bank of snow. More snow is drifting down from above, steadily coating my dark hair, a convenient natural camoflauge. The silence of the snow is eerie. Rain comes down and pounds on things; you can hear it—you know it's there. Snow is quiet. If you don't look, you won't ever know of its presence. Standing in the forest that borders the place I've had nightmares about for two years now, listening to the silence of the snow, shivers run down my spine. It feels like a nasty omen.

But now, I'm not aware of any of this, though just a moment before it was foremost in my mind. Now I'm frozen where I stand, unable to move or take my eyes away from the figure in the window of what once was Gryffindor Tower. My breath is caught in my throat. It's a ghost from my past, a person I'd never imagined I'd ever have to see again: Hermione Granger, my one-time best friend who betrayed me in the worst of ways. I hate her so deeply it frightens me sometimes. I wonder how it's possible to go from loving someone to hating them so utterly. Then all I have to do is remind myself of all the pain she's caused the entire wizarding world—her two "best friends" most of all—and I have no more questions.

But seeing her is different. It's so simple to remember old times and pick them apart, looking for any little clue of her deception, of her darkness. It's easy to let my hatred fill me. But when I see her, even from such a great distance, it's all so much harder. Instead of feeling simple anger, a flurry of emotions overcomes me: regret, sadness, things I've long since stopped feeling.

"Harry, move it!"

I hear Ron's voice in the back of my mind, but it's distant, as though coming from very far away. I don't move. I watch as Hermione lifts something to her hand. I can't tell what she holds because of the distance—I can barely tell that it's her—and then she looks up. Our eyes meet. The oddest sensation overcomes me, a powerful mixture of desires. Part of me is desperate to confront her, while the other part wants to run in the other direction. Whatever she's been holding drops from her hand. It's small and glittery and it falls the seven floors to the ground, where it is buried in a snow bank.

"Harry!" Ron yells again. He's right beside me now, shaking me violently. I finally look over at him. My face must give away my emotions, because he frowns. "What is it? We have to move if we don't want to be caught!"

I can only shake my head. I look back up at the window to where Hermione is still as frozen as I am. I can't see her expression from here and I wonder how she feels as she's confronted with the aftermath of her diabolical actions of long ago. Is she feeling regret? I doubt it. If there is one thing I've learned over the past couple of years it's that people like her, people who can so effortlessly betray the ones they love, have no regrets—and you can have none where they're concerned. Perhaps she feels elation; the very idea nauseates me.

Ron turns to look at what holds me so fixated. He squints for a moment before his eyes grow very wide. "Merlin," he whispers. Still staring, he pulls me back a step. "Harry, let's go! She'll betray us in an instant! She's already proven that. We've got to get out of here!"

The urgency in Ron's words reaches me. While I have heard everything else he's said, nothing has really had any meaning, but these last words do. I turn away. Ron's right—Hermione will turn and run to Voldemort the second she moves away from the window.

We run back into the forest and Ron calls out our signal to abort the mission. Our meager forces are spread out wide over an area of about half a mile. I have come out of my shock by now and am back to playing my role as leader of the group. I attempt to appear indifferent and unaffected, but I don't fool myself. Seeing her has shaken me deeply. It's all I can do to hold it together so that I can lead my group safely out of the forest.

I don't remember the trip back to our hideout. I think Ron took over leading the group about halfway through, but he hasn't brought up anything since. I do know that he was the one that led the group Apparition once we were back at the safe point.

We are currently residing in an old, abandoned Muggle cabin deep in a forest in the countryside. We'll probably move soon—we have to every month or so, or Voldemort and his forces will track us down too easily. It's relatively easy to find places to stay; most of the country is in ruins. Voldemort controls everyone, Muggles and wizards alike. Most Muggles are dead, for Voldemort has no use for them. He's massacred them. Many escaped to foreign countries, but it was a hard thing to accomplish. He has control of most of Europe now. I don't know what has become of the Dursleys, nor do I particularly care. The main leaders of the Light side have been killed. There aren't many Light supporters left who have not finally given in to the Dark side, been forced into slavery, or been killed. Some of us are being held in Azkaban, which was emptied of Death Eaters and filled instead with some of the members of the most notorious rebel groups. Our particular group has not lost a single member to imprisonment or death. We've been lucky—but there's no telling just how long that luck will last.

Despite the cold, I don't stay inside the cabin once we return. The walls seem to press in on me, suffocating me. I leave the cabin and walk the short distance to the small creek that runs near it. I brush the snow off a large rock and sit down, staring at the rapidly freezing water and the snowy banks. In one area of the creek, where the ice is much thicker, I can see a fish trapped within. I feel an odd kinship with that fish. I can relate exactly to how it must feel—swimming along through life as usual one day, then without warning becoming trapped. Knowing your life is seeping away from you slowly, with all you need to continue just beyond your reach.

My mind is buzzing. Just this morning we were all so excited. We thought we actually stood a chance at striking a real blow to the Dark Arts school. We dared not use the passages marked on the Marauder's Map any longer—Hermione knew of those, and what she knew, the Death Eaters were aware of. Fred and George recently managed to remember the location of a different passage, one not marked on the map. We supposed it had to be very well hidden if my father and his friends hadn't found it and Fred and George had such trouble locating it as well. We'd felt secure in the knowledge that this time we would manage something significant. I should have known better, after everything that's happened. I should have known that in this world, life is never going to cut us a break. We were all ready, in our positions along the forest's edge.

And then _she_ came in.

I find it hard to even say her name. It causes me so much pain, thinking of how she'd once been my best friend, how I would once have done anything for her. Then she'd betrayed us, leaving us in this bleak position. And here again, she's ruined our plans.

My eyes close and the memory I've been trying so hard to keep at bay is finally released from my meticulously constructed barriers: Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy busting down the doors in the front of Hogwarts school, marching in, shooting down anyone in their way . . . Hermione following dutifully behind them . . .

A hand falls on my shoulder and my eyes snap open. I jump to my feet on instinct. I look over to see Ron standing beside me and relax. He's not looking at me, instead staring out over the creek as I had moments before. His face is as blank and expressionless as always.

He's never been the same since Voldemort won the war. His whole life was destroyed, more so even than mine. His parents and Percy were killed. Bill and Charlie are taking cover in Romania and can't get back to England without being killed themselves. Ginny, Fred, George, and Ron are all with our rebel group. All of them are completely different people. Fred and George rarely joke anymore; Ron is bleak and cynical; and Ginny is withdrawn and silent, often prone to fits of tears or bursts of anger with no warning. I guess we've all changed. I don't suppose a person could live through what we have and not have their lives affected, but the four siblings have been through so much more.

"Are you thinking about _her_?" asks Ron quietly, breaking the silence. He spits out the last word with an intense anger. If possible, Ron hates Hermione even more than I do. He blames her for the deaths of his parents and brother—rightly so, I believe.

I nod.

Ron shakes his head. I can see the frown on his face. "Another plan of ours she's ruined. Don't pay her any mind, Harry, she's not worth it. Believe me, I've spent enough time thinking about her, playing with everything she once did and told us in my head, feeling the resentment and the betrayal. Don't bother with it. All you're doing is allowing her to have control over you. You're letting the memory of her keep hurting you. That's what she'd love. Don't give her the satisfaction."

Ron's words are harsh, but true. I know he's right. I try so hard to block her from my mind, but I simply cannot. I've been trying for the past two years. I can usually keep her tucked away in some distant corner of my brain, but she is never fully gone; I doubt she ever will be. You don't just forget someone who has given you this much grief. Now I can't even hide her away. Seeing her has put me back at square one, where my every conscious thought is centered around her. I don't think it's a good idea to tell this to Ron, though.

We say no more; there's nothing left to be said. The silence between us is not quite companionable, but it's one of understanding. Finally, Ron turns and walks away, muttering something unintelligible about being cold. I don't follow, choosing instead to sit back down on the rock. It's beginning to snow again. I'm no longer even attempting to put her out of my mind. The hours slip away, snow gradually building around me. I'm wearing only a light jacket, but I don't feel the cold—I'm far too lost within my own head. As darkness descends around me, clarity dawns. I know that I will never be able to put Hermione out of my mind until everything is wrapped up; until every last bit of disbelief I may harbor is banished; until I understand. I know she betrayed us—for a long time that was all I cared to know. But now I hunger for the answers to the burning questions that have plagued my mind for years: Why did she do it? When did she go over? Was she ever truly our friend, or just a deceptive liar? The only person I can get these answers from is Hermione herself, and I can no longer deny my desperation to know them.

For the first time, I feel ready to face my past—to face her. With hardened resolution, I stand. I tilt my head back and look up at the sky. Showing through the stormy clouds are patches of deep sapphire, speckled with silver stars. I close my eyes and focus on returning to the safe Apparition point. I am going to see Hermione Granger. I want to put her out of my mind, I tell myself. I want to be able to move on with my life. Yet deep in my head, a voice nags me tauntingly, a voice it takes all my will to ignore: _Are_ _you_ _sure_ _you_ _aren't_ _just_ _foolishly_ _hoping_ _she_ _might_ _still_ _somehow_ _be_ _your_ _friend_?


	3. How Could You?

3

How Could You?

"_A hundred days have made me older_

_Since the last time that I saw your pretty face_

_A thousand lights have made me colder_

_And I don't think I can look at this the same."_

_--Three Doors Down_

I walk along, my strides purposeful but slow, keeping in mind the need for caution. The sky is clear here, with stars twinkling down innocently upon my head. My feet move deftly through the snow and the underbrush, making nary a sound. I've almost reached Hogwarts. I'm still considering just how I'll get Hermione's attention. And even if I do, what can I possibly say to her? Though my movements are confident, my brain is far from being so. My heart is beginning to pound, and with each step my courage falters a little more. Can I really do this? _Should_ I really do this?

I reach the edge of the forest. It's just past midnight now. I'm staring out over the frozen lake towards old Gryffindor Tower. I look up at the window in which I'd seen Hermione earlier—if I think very hard I can get a picture of the layout of the tower and remember that it was the window of a girls' dormitory. The light is on. I consider walking closer and yelling up, but realize quickly just how bad an idea that is. Perhaps I can throw a rock if I get close enough. The chances are slim that my aim is that good, but the years of Quidditch have helped. I kneel down and brush away some snow, searching for any decent-sized rocks that may lay beneath. I collect about ten and stand up again, glancing around uncertainly.

This is risky. I'm jeopardizing my entire group by doing this, and for that I feel terrible. Some leader I am. But regardless of logic, regardless of responsibility, this is something I have to do. If I don't, the thought of Hermione will torment me for the rest of my days.

I step out into the open and pause. I half expect sirens to blare and dementors and Death Eaters to swoop down on me, but only silence comes. I let out a sigh and begin to advance toward the base of the tower at a quicker pace. My heart is pounding again. What if she sees me and goes straight to Voldemort? Something within me argues against that—_no_, _she'll_ _talk_ _to_ _me_. _Even_ _if_ _she_ _turns_ me _in_ _afterward_, _she'll_ _talk_ _to_ _me_. I'm not sure which side of my brain I believe and that uncertainty frightens me. I've learned from my experiences never to go into something unless you're sure it isn't a trap. This isn't a pre-set trap, but I could very easily be trapping myself.

I reach the tower and stare up. It seems so much higher while standing below, but I can still see the light flickering high above. I bite my lower lip. This is my last chance to walk away. I'm teetering at the fork in the roads—the easiest path is the path back toward our base, the path that will lead me away from the traitorous Hermione Granger forever; the harder one lies in throwing the rocks and seeking her attention. And whatever path I choose, I can't go back and change my decision if it's not to my liking.

I clutch a rock in my fist and feel its smooth texture. My eyes are trained determinedly upward. I wind my arm back and throw the rock with all the force I can muster. It falls short by about two floors, but I don't hesitate to throw another. My choice was made in that instant and I have no more doubts. I hurl rock after rock, none seeming to reach. My arm begins to ache as I refuse to stop or slow. I stoop down to collect some more rocks and throw those, too. Finally, I make it. The rock goes straight into her window. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat; now is the moment of truth. Did I make the right decision?

**Hermione**

I sit on my bed, staring at the wall in front of me. I've hardly moved all day. Since I saw Harry, I've been in an odd type of stupor. The walls I've built around my emotions and memories have fallen and I have spent the day lost in their depths. It took me several minutes to accept that it was actually him I had seen. For a moment I'd assumed I was hallucinating. Then I'd seen Ron run out to Harry and I realized that I was imagining nothing.

Seeing them was like a slap in the face, a bucket of ice water being poured over my head—my two best friends who hate me. I knew they had a right to hate me, of course—I hate myself, after all. I harbor no bad feelings toward them for what they feel for me. However, I still miss them something awful, and it's a source of infinite pain to know that they loathe me so. It's hard to remember that what I did was in their best interest. I haven't managed to see the good side of it all yet. Certainly, they are alive, but their way of life doesn't appear to be much better than mine. And keeping someone alive to live this kind of torture is not kindness—it's cruelty.

Ron's face when he saw me is indelibly etched in my mind. His expression of pure anger was enough to send shivers down my spine. Harry did not appear angry, simply startled and horrified and—unless I'm much mistaken—hurt. His expression was far more painful than Ron's. Once they'd retreated, I had collapsed on my bed, crying.

I had not intended to live to see this hour of the day. Had Harry not appeared when he had, I'd be dead now. Death is still painfully tempting, as if I'm a dog with a steak being dangled in front of it. But now this dog is chained once more, with the steak just out of reach. I do not intend to retrieve the knife. Perhaps it's my own way of punishing myself for what I have done, or perhaps I still hope that one day all this will end. I'm not sure why, nor do I care. Seeing them has changed everything. It's some kind of an omen. Good or bad, I cannot say. I just have a feeling that something new is coming, that something grand and huge has been set into motion and I must be here to see it through.

And as I sit here contemplating these things, a rock soars through my window.

It lands at the foot of my bed. I stare at it dumbly for a few moments, unmoving. All is silent and still. Finally, I snap out of my reverie. I stand and walk over to it, bending to pick it up. It's small and round, so cold against my skin that it may as well have been ice. Detached though I am, I still know that rocks don't fly up seven stories on their own. Someone has thrown it in here. Who?

I walk over to my window and look down, but I see only a dark abyss. I look toward the ground, though I cannot imagine anyone managing to throw a rock from that far. I squint my eyes through the blackness and manage to see a vague, distant figure standing below. Not for the first time, I pine for my wand. The Death Eaters confiscate it from me except for classes; I'm not trusted. I have no way of casting down a light.

The person below seems to be thinking along the same lines. In an instant, I go from being unable to see due to lack of light to being blinded by the brightness. A moment later, the concentrated beam of light moves so that I'm not staring directly into it. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust and when they do, my heart stands still. It's Harry.

**Harry**

I stare up at her. I can see her clearly, though it takes her a moment to see me. I know when she does, because her mouth falls open and an expression of surprise comes over her face. I motion for her to come down. She doesn't seem to get the idea at first; I have to motion it several times before understanding dawns on her face. She disappears from the window and I feel mistrust and doubt tighten my stomach. Is she coming down or going to betray me?

She's out of sight for at least a minute, and then she reappears, startling me. I assumed she'd left. She throws something down at me and I back up instinctively. I don't hear whatever it is land for a long time, so I assume that it's not something that would make sound on impact. I stoop down, using my wandlight to search the ground. A few feet away, a piece of paper is lying in the snow. My fingers are numb as I fumble to unfold it.

_Harry,_

_I will try to come down, but I can't guarantee anything._

_I could very well be stopped on my way, and_

_should I be, I will be led away for punishment. Give me fif-_

_teen minutes. If I don't arrive by then, I will_

_not arrive at all. Leave should this deadline pass._

_--Hermione_

I stare at the note for several moments. Fifteen minutes . . . that would be plenty of time for her to set the Death Eaters on me. I look back up and she's gone. It's a horribly strange sensation, holding the note, knowing that she had written it moments before and that I will soon be coming face to face with her for the first time in years—if she does not betray me, that is.

I back into the shadows and crouch down, keeping my back to the stone and watching the shadows alterly. I consider what I will say to her. What is there to say to someone who has done this much damage to you? I'll have to do my best to keep myself under control. I don't want to lose my head. I want understand everything that's happened, and going wild on her will not help my chances of that.

I wait for at least ten minutes before I see any movement. Then, there it is—a figure moving silently from the front doors. I tense and prepare to move. Whether or not I'm facing an attack is a mystery, which spawns fear in me and sends my adrenaline rushing.

A moment later, I recognize the figure to be Hermione appearing very clearly alone. I stand and walk cautiously toward her. My eyes comb the landscape around us ceaselessly, and my wand is clutched firmly in my fist, pointed at her. I don't trust her enough to lower it to my side.

She raises her hands when she sees me with my wand. She stops. I can't see her face. Lighting my wand, I step nearer, struggling to keep myself unreadable. Looking closer, I can see that she's shaking. Her face and eyes are dead and hollow looking, much like Sirius's right after he got out of Azkaban. They're no longer the brilliant cinnamon brown they once were—instead they've taken on a dull grayish color. Her hair is shorter, cut to frame her face, stopping half an inch below her ears. She dons green-lined Slytherin robes and appears frightened.

"Nice robes," I comment bitterly. I'm unable to stop myself.

She ignores this, lowering her eyes. "You can put your wand down, Harry," she sighs. Her voice is full of sadness. "I don't have mine."

"I don't believe you," I inform her bluntly. "Why would you come out here unarmed to face me? Just toss it down. Unlike you, I'm honorable—I won't attack you unless you attack me, no matter how tempting the idea may be."

She flinches at my harsh words and makes no attempt to defend herself. "I don't have my wand except for classes. They don't let me keep it."

I snort. "Right. A loyal Death Eater like yourself deprived of your wand? I doubt it. However, if you want to keep it, go ahead. I won't lower mine." I glare at her. "Before we say anything more, I want to make a few points. First, I'm not here to give you any type of a second chance. You're the greatest traitor the Light side has ever seen and I will never forgive you for everything you've done to hurt us all. Secondly, I don't trust you. If you intend to attack me, or betray me, I suggest you tell me now. I _will_ kill you if you betray us a second time. I promise you that I will hunt you down until you are dead if you betray anything we say here tonight to one of your Death Eater pals." I'm trying very hard to keep my voice low and controlled, but I can feel the red heat in my face. I'm losing the composure I promised myself I'd keep.

Hermione is staring at the ground. She looks close to tears and says nothing.

"Well?" I demand. "Isn't there anything you'd like to say? Come on, defend yourself, I know you're dying to." My words are harsh and bitter and I know from her expression that I'm hurting her more with every word. Perhaps the worst part is that I'm glad. That I _want_ to hurt her. Don't I have that right? After all she's done to us, a little verbal torture isn't out of the question. And why should this hurt her anyway? She's a Death Eater, and a traitor. It's her own fault I have these things to throw at her.

"Please, stop," she begs, her eyes meeting mine. I can see the pain in them. "I know what I did was horrible and wrong. I know I've done unspeakable things. I don't expect your forgiveness or trust . . . I could never expect that after all I've done. But you don't understand everything . . ."

"Well that's why I'm here tonight, Hermione!" I cry, laughing bitterly and spreading my arms wide. "To understand. So why don't you help me with that?"

Hermione groans and looks down, shaking her head. "Harry, I can't. I can't tell you certain things . . . many things. What they'd do to me if they ever found out . . . what they'll do to me just for being here tonight . . ." She shivers and for a moment I wonder just what it is they would do to her. Then I put the thought from my mind. She's going for sympathy; t's all an act. Besides, what do I care if the other Death Eaters hurt her? She deserves what she gets. She's put herself where she is now—she's put _everyone_ where they are now. But still, in the back of my mind, I wonder . . .

I let out another humorless laugh. "Of course you can't. Can't betray your people, can you? Of course, it was so easy for you to betray Ron and I—the two people who were your friends beyond condition, who would have sacrificed their lives for you. The three of us went that deep, you know, even if you never felt it. I'd have stepped in front of any curse for you. Ron would have done the same. We assumed you'd do the same for us. Then you did the exact opposite—you _ruined_ our lives." My anger is beyond control now. "You know who you're like, don't you? You're just the same as Wormtail, going against his friends and betraying my parents—getting them killed. You've done just the same to Ron and I!" I spit.

I can see Hermione flinching at my every word. "Harry, please . . . I know what I did. But you don't understand everything."

"Then tell me!" I cry. My anger vanishes in a heartbeat, and I'm filled now with desperation. My mind is begging her to give me some excuse, some reason to justify what she's done. I know I will not believe it, but I want to put my mind to rest somehow, even if it is with lies. It's so hard to imagine her as the traitor she is, even after all the time that's passed. "Hermione, I want to know. If you didn't do what it seems you did, then justify yourself."

She just shakes her head. "I can't . . ." she whispers.

And as quickly as my anger left me, it returns. My voice rises as adrenaline and hatred flow unchecked through my boiling veins. "Well, then why don't I explain some things to you?" I snap. "You want to know the effects of this mess you've put us in? I'll give you the more personal ones. Molly, Arthur, and Percy Weasley? Guess what—they're all dead! Bill and Charlie are stuck in another county! Ron and Ginny and Fred and George have been hurt beyond belief. You have _no_ idea what this has done to them! If you think I hate you, you should see what Ron would do if he saw you. He wouldn't give you the chance to escape—he'd kill you without hesitation, and I can't say that he wouldn't be justified in doing that. But maybe Ron's family isn't enough to satisfy your bloodlust. Let me add to your body count. Professor McGonagall? Flitwick? Madam Pomfrey? How's that? What about Ernie Macmillan? Susan Bones? Colin Creevy? Seamus?"

Hermione is sobbing openly now and begging me quietly to stop. Somewhere deep within me, I can hear my reasonable side call out to me to do as she asks. It's telling me that I've hurt her enough—that I don't have to keep this up. But my anger has too firm a hold on me now. I have one last ball to throw at her, the most painful, and I cannot help but hurl it at full speed.

"By the way, have you thought much about your parents?" I ask bitterly. She bites her lip and I know I have her. I'm taking some warped pleasure in her pain. "You want to know something about them? Voldemort killed them himself. You probably already knew that, though, right? But did you know that he tortured them to death? I'm not sure why myself, as you did him such a great victory, but he did. You didn't try to stop him, Hermione? Did you even care about _them_?"

I was right in thinking that she didn't know this. Hermione collapses to her knees in the snow and covers her mouth with her hands. Her eyes are large and glassy. She is positively trembling. Her sobs are the only sound echoing into the night as I try to reign my anger in. I'm beginning to regret using such a harsh tone. Not all the pain she appears to be in is an act.

"I think it's time I leave," I say after a long moment, my voice calm and emotionless once more. "I hope you have a nice life. You sacrificed an awful lot to get it." I turn and begin to walk away into the night, intending to leave her there without looking back, just as she left Ron and I without a second glance. But her call stops me.

"Harry!"

Against my better judgement, I turn around. The pain on her face is almost unbearable to me. Much as I may deny it, I still have some emotional ties to her—enough for me to care whether she is alive or dead, hurt or well. I had not been lying when I'd told her I was once willing to die for her. A bond that deep takes a long time to fully break.

"What?" I ask coldly.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly, looking away. She's still sobbing. "You have no idea how sorry I am."

"Then you'd do something," I say, not angry, but sad. "You wouldn't have allowed all this to go on as long as it has."

"I'm scared!" she cries. "Every day I live in terror. You can't understand the way it feels."

"I think I can," I say in a low voice. "I live in terror, too. I never know whether or not Voldemort will come after us each day. We live in constant fear."

"It's different," she protests. "You're frightened of the possibility and the hardship. My fear is a lot more solid. Do you know what everyone here thinks of me? You assume they hold me in such high regard, but they don't—you'd understand why if you knew everything that had really happened. Any chance they get, they'll hurt me." Her eyes are haunted and tortured as she continues. "Do you know what punishments consist of here for me? Unbearable physical pain, twisted mental torture . . . Harry, what they've done to me in the past, what they'll inevitably do to me in the future . . . if you'd lived through it, too, you'd know what I was talking about. It's really hard to gather the courage to do anything here, knowing that if it fails then your life will plummet even farther down the trail of misery in unimaginable ways."

I grow confused as I listen to her. I feel myself beginning to believe her, beginning to imagine her as a prisoner rather than an enemy. But of course that's what she'd want; she could simply be trying to manipulate my emotions, draw me in again. But the look in her eyes … that haunted, scarred look … such a thing couldn't be faked by the most talented actor.

As I begin to fidget awkwardly, off-put by my confusion, she continues. "Then, this morning I finally managed to take the step necessary to try and end all this. And then . . ." She looks at me. "I saw you. And now nothing's changed . . . again." Still shaking, she pushes herself to her feet and brushes the snow from her clothing. "Goodbye, Harry. And know that I really am sorry for so many things. I hope you have the strength to change the things I'm too cowardly to try to alter."

She turns and walks away. I don't call after her, momentarily stunned by the power and sincerity in her words. Is it possible that everything she's said tonight is the truth? Or am I still just hungering desperately for some last shred of goodness left in her?

She disappears back into the castle and I stand frozen for a moment. Finally, I sigh and turn, intending to walk away. My foot plummets into a hole in the snow bank I'm standing on and I sink down. I claw at the snow and after a few moments of struggle, manage to pull myself back up. Once I'm standing on solid ground again, I glance down and see something glittering in the moonlight; it must have been dislodged from the snow. I reach down and grab it, holding it up so that I can examine it. It's a knife—a dagger, really. This must be what Hermione dropped this morning.

Suddenly, I consider what she last said to me: "_Then_, _this_ _morning_ _I_ _finally_ _managed_ _to_ _take_ _the_ _step_ _necessary_ _to_ _try_ _and_ _end_ _all_ _this_ . . ."

My eyes widen as I realize the full meaning of what she'd said—she had intended to kill herself. My legs grow weak beneath me. All the things I said to her, about her parents and the teachers and Ron . . . if she'd managed to find the strength to avoid killing herself before, I doubt she will hold out now.

And for the first time in a long time, I actually care.


	4. Risking it All

4

Risking it All

"_All your purposes are gone_

_Nothing's right and nothing's wrong_

_Nothing ventured, nothing gained_

_Feel no sorrow, feel no pain."_

_--Three Doors Down_

I don't make it back to our hideout until close to four a.m. Ron and Hagrid confront me angrily as I enter, demanding to know where I've been. I have no patience for their questions, and I tell them as much, pushing past them and heading off to try to catch at least a bit of sleep before the dawn.

My intentions are not carried out. Every time I close my eyes, images flash beneath my eyelids, sending me tossing and turning. The worst come when I manage to fully doze off. No longer are they mere images—they've transformed into full-fledged nightmares. Seeing Hermione has brought them back in full force. I haven't had nightmares to this particular degree in a long while. Worst of all are the memories of the day Hermione turned traitor, the day Ron and I realized she'd been using us for Merlin knew how long. I saw her standing before me, at Voldemort's side, head held high and proud as Voldemort rounded up the whole school, killing so many of my classmates, one by one. . . . I'm nearly sick at the memory. Oh, how I'd clung desperately to the belief that she was under the Imperius Curse. All along, though, I think I knew that she was not. Then the disbelief had vanished, replaced by a burning anger that had held out until just yesterday. Until I saw her again. And now I don't know what I feel.

I give up after about an hour of attempting to sleep, knowing my efforts are wasted. If I'm to lay awake for the rest of the night, I might as well make something out of the hours. Running fingers through my unruly hair, I step out of the room I share with Ron, Fred, and George. The other three have not been in here since I came back. I venture to the kitchen and see Ron sitting at the table, his head in his hands. A mug of coffee sits in front of him, appearing untouched as steam rises from it slowly.

"Hey, mate," I say softly, stopping in the doorway.

Ron's head snaps up and he looks at me. I'm not sure what I expect to see on his face—anger, probably. Anger at me for running off without telling anyone, jeopardizing us all, and then returning only to tell him rudely that I didn't want to talk about it. His face contains no anger, though, just a deep, reminiscing sadness. I can tell that he's allowing himself to consider the past and the possibilities had Hermione not betrayed us. He doesn't do it too often anymore, and when he does you know he's really upset. I have a terrible feeling that I've brought on this particular attack of nostalgia and I feel my stomach knot with guilt.

"Hello," he says, his voice hoarse.

I walk over and take the seat across from him, studying him silently.

He motions at the coffee mug. "Want some?"

"Yeah," I agree. "After the night I've had, I'm not going to be sleeping."

He says nothing to me, instead getting up and pouring me some of the coffee. It's black, but I don't care, simply happy for the caffiene. The steaming liquid burns my tongue and throat, but I take no notice. Ron is still not looking at me and I'm beginning to feel even worse about how I've behaved this evening.

"I'm sorry for the way I acted earlier," I say finally. "I just took off on a whim. I'm the leader here—I have no right to up and leave with no warning. It was wrong of me. And I'm also sorry for being so short with you when I came back."

Ron just shrugs and shakes his head. "No big deal. You're back, that's what counts." He is silent for another long moment, then looks up. I can see the pain in his eyes. "I thought they'd captured you, Harry. Call me paranoid, but I was positive that's what happened. I went a little nuts. Ask anyone around here. I've already lost my parents and Percy; I've as good as lost Bill and Charlie for all the help they're doing us over in Romania; I've lost Ginny, Fred and George in the sense that we're all so divided anymore; and I've lost Hermione in the worst of ways. Thinking I'd lost you too . . . I really lost it there, pal."

And there it goes, the truckload of guilt that has been threatening to tip has poured over onto me. I wonder exactly how it was that Ron lost it; I'll have to ask Fred or George later. "I'm sorry," I say again, though I'm aware of how horribly inadequate it sounds.

Ron shrugs again. "Don't worry about it. I'm just sort of out of it right now." He looks up, directly into my eyes. "Though I am interested in knowing exactly where it was you took off to. You look like you've aged about a hundred years since we last saw you. What happened?"

I don't know how Ron will react to what I've done. He hates Hermione with a blazing passion the likes of which I've never seen. Will he see my actions as a betrayal to him, to this group? Will he hate me? I consider how to break it to him, because I know that no matter how he may react, he deserves the explanation.

"I went back to Hogwarts," I say finally. I offer no more of an explanation, waiting to see if he fits the puzzle pieces together himself. I don't dare look at him, but I can sense his eyes burning into me. I feel as though we've switched places—now I'm the one hiding my eyes whilst he watches my every move.

"Oh?" says Ron, almost nonchalantly. Any of his acquaintances would have taken this statement as being calm and casual. I, however, know Ron much better than most other people. I can hear the distinct undercurrent of bitter anger in his voice. In that second, my head snaps up. He knows. He's known all along that whatever I've been up to had to do with Hermione.

"How much do you know?" I demand suspiciously.

Ron just shrugs, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. "Not much. I didn't really fit it all together until you came back. What we talked about before you left . . . how you reacted when you saw her back at Hogwarts . . . I figured you'd gone to see her again." The smile is gone now, and his eyes are burning deep into mine, searching for any hidden truths. "Tell me, though—_why_ did you go back to see her? What could possibly be so important that you had to go to _her_?"

"She's the only one I could go to, Ron," I explain, aware my own words weren't making much sense. "I just had to talk to her. I've been needing to since this whole thing began, you know? I couldn't put my mind to rest until I did."

Ron nods and I can see in his eyes that he understands. I'm beginning to feel glad that I've caught him in a mellow moment. At times when he's not so calm, a proclamation like this would have had us shouting at one another.

"So, did it help?" he asks.

Having already spent a good deal of time asking myself this question, I'm quick to respond. "No," I say softly. "I don't think it did."

"Why not?"

"I was expecting her to be cold and mean and . . . deceitful. I just expected her to be a monster. I figured she'd insult me, tell me off for being ignorant enough to believe her or something. Then I'd turn and walk away and I'd know that all these hours I've spent wondering whether or not she might still be our friend were wasted. That she was evil all along. It would have put my mind to rest. I could have put her behind me, in some sense. I would have been able to move on, knowing once and for all that she is and always will be a traitor." I stop and shake my head, taking another sip of my coffee and massaging my temples. "It didn't turn out that way. She was so . . . upset . . . and emotional . . . and. . . . Ron, she seemed to be in so much pain. As it turned out, I was the one that lost it. I started screaming at her. I actually threw it in her face that her parents were tortured to death."

I see Ron wince. I know he's thinking of his own parents, and thanking Merlin that at least they didn't die by torture.

"Yes, well, she deserved it. What did she do, shrug and walk away?" His words are harsh, but I cannot help remembering that I'd assumed she'd react the same way.

I shake my head. "No . . . she started crying. I don't think she knew . . . she was so upset that I started to feel sorry for her. She kept telling me that I didn't know the whole story, but she was too afraid to tell me. Kept going on about the punishments the Death Eaters would give her. She made it sound like she was some sort of a prisoner."

"Sympathy," says Ron calmly. "She's playing you again, Harry. Of course she's not just going to be blunt and tell you off. She'll want to entwine herself around you again, get more information, and capture us. Don't fall for it."

Of course this explanation makes perfect sense, but I'm not so sure. Perhaps it is as Ron says, and I am falling into her beautifully laid trap once more—I've certainly considered the possibility myself. But that doesn't stop my doubts. I explain about the knife and my suspicions of her attempted suicide.

Ron just shakes his head. "She wasn't going to kill herself, Harry. She's probably planting it all as evidence to trick you and get more sympathy. And besides, even if she did kill herself, I'm not going to be losing any sleep over it." He stands and stretches. He pours his half-drank coffee into the sink and wanders toward the door. "I'll see you later. I want to see if I can't get an hour or two of sleep before morning."

Ron disappears out the doorway and I suddenly feel quite alone. Watching Ron retreat, a voice begins nagging at me once more, telling me that none of them support me. Of course they're my friends—I know that without question. But they don't feel what I do when it comes to Hermione. I can see why they don't—they didn't see her and talk to her. Even if they had, after what she did, I can't say I'd blame them if they still turned away. But _I_ can't do that. Going to see Hermione has put me right in the middle of this mess. I can't just leave it here. There's more to all this and I won't stop until I get the whole story. Yet no one else seems to be behind me in this.

I sigh and stand, leaving my coffee on the table and not caring that Ginny, the biggest neat-freak of us all, will most likely bite my head off for it in a few hours. I take a seat on the old couch in front of the fireplace. The cushions are ripped in many places and springs poke up in certain areas, but it's warm and soft. I sit staring into the flames. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that light is beginning to color the sky outside the window.

I hear footsteps behind me and close my eyes, wondering who it is that will disrupt my solitude. I turn my head and see Hagrid walking over to me. He's so tall that he has to duck his head a little to walk through the house, because of the low ceilings. He sits down beside me and I can hear the couch screech in protest. He doesn't seem to notice.

"All righ' there, Harry?" he asks me quietly. I nod and Hagrid continues. "'Cause yeh gave us all quite the scare there earlier. And yeh don' look so good right now."

I say nothing and make no attempt to respond. It's not that I dislike Hagrid's concern, but I'm simply not in the mood to talk. Hagrid, however, seems determined to start a conversation and his next comment gets the desired result.

"I heard you an' Ron talkin' abou' Hermione in the kitchen."

I look at him, not particularly surprised. The house is small; people can't help overhearing things sometimes. "Eavesdropping, then?" I tease weakly.

"Not intentionally, I swear ter it. I jus' walked by an' happened ter overhear her name. I paused ter listen." He gives me an apologetic smile. "I think I heard most everythin'."

I nod again. "So go ahead then—read me the riot act. I expect to get it by every single person in this house before the morning's over, so get your turn over with now."

Hagrid sighs. "Harry, I ain' here ter yell at yeh, or ter criticize yer decisions. I trust yer judgment. But I can' say I trust Hermione. An' I don' think yeh should get involved any deeper with her. Yeah, a large reason fer my sayin' that is our safety, but I also don' wan' ter see yeh get hurt again. She's a great con artist. We all fell fer her. We all wanted so badly ter trust her fer a while there. But that time has passed. We know she's bad. If yeh feel sorry fer her, she'll be able ter use that ter gain yer trust—an' then she'll betray yeh again."

I wince at his final words and put my head in my hands. "I know. Believe me, I know. I don't know what to think about her, Hagrid. But you didn't see her! The way she looked . . . I just can't believe it's all an act. Maybe part of it, yeah, but when she was talking to me about being afraid all the time, and whatever it is that the Death Eaters do to her, the fear in her eyes and in her voice was real. That much I can swear to."

Hagrid's face takes on a look of sadness. "So yeh think they bin hurtin' her?"

I take a moment to consider, then nod. "I guess so. I don't see what else could cause such a reaction. And Hagrid, I know she's caused us enough suffering. I know what Ron would say—I know he'd be happy to let her be tortured to death at the hands of the Death Eaters. But I couldn't live with that. I still remember the old times and . . . maybe all along she was just acting, but I still feel like at one point we really were friends. And if I'm right about that, then … I just can't do nothing!"

Hagrid stares out the window silently for a moment before meeting my gaze steadily. "Harry, I know where yer comin' from. If she were ter die fer wha' she's done . . . I could accept that. She'd deserve it. But she doesn' deserve ter suffer as much as yeh suspect she is. Ter say tha' she did deserve it would be ter sink ter her level. I feel the same way you do—traitor though she is, she was once a friend, an' we should at least try ter prevent her from sufferin'. Ron an' his siblin's have lost more than any of us. It's no surprise he wouldn' be willin' ter see this the way we do. I can' blame him fer that."

"No, I can't either," I agree. "So what am I supposed to do?"

"I'm not sure, Harry. Jus' remember—whatever yeh decide ter do, do it with the knowledge o' the group and make sure yeh aren' jeopardizing any of us. Like it or not, yeh _are_ our leader, and we need yeh. Yeh can' go riskin' yerself foolishly." Hagrid stands and pats my shoulder with one of his large hands, then wanders back down the hall. I stare once more into the dying flames of the fire. Now what?

Somehow, my nighttime excursion manages to stay between Ron, Hagrid and I. Ginny, Fred, George, Neville, Katie, and Angelina show no signs of knowing anything.

I can't help but watch the group at breakfast. Such a small, pathetic band of rebels we are. These are the only people Ron and I had managed to get out of the Gryffindor common room and down the secret passage to safety before the Death Eaters took us all. I know where Sirius is—he's hiding out somewhere with Dumbledore's group, more of our allies. We don't know specifically where they're located, a security precaution in case one of us is ever captured and fed Veritaserum. Likewise, they don't know our exact location. Their group consists of Dumbledore, Sirius, Remus Lupin, the real Mad-Eye Moody, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher, and a few Aurors and other Ministry personnel. They call themselves the Order of the Phoenix. We've always been too busy trying to stay alive to bother coming up with a name for ourselves.

I notice Ron and Hagrid watching me rather closely as I eat, but I don't return their gazes. Many of the others demand to know where I'd gone. When I refuse to speak of it, saying that it doesn't matter, it only makes them more determined. By the end of breakfast, I've managed to successfully piss off almost everyone with the exception of Fred and George, who plainly refuse to give up and find my determination to be a delightful challenge.

Fred and George tail me everywhere I go until I get fed up with them, yell at them, and lock myself in our room. I climb out the window and sit outside on the tree stump below, watching the sun come up and cast its grayish rays over the white and green trees. I can't figure out what to do about Hermione. Should I follow Ron's advice? Hagrid's? Disregard them both and follow my own instincts? I don't know what to do. The only way I can stop the Death Eaters from hurting her is to take her away from Hogwarts, and that would be putting us in jeopardy. Voldemort would figure out that it was us and he'd hunt us even more viciously. No, I can't do that. But then what can I do?

I let out a loud, aggravated growl, startling a few birds in a nearby bush and making them take flight. It's ridiculous that I should be so concerned about her! Here I sit, angering my only friends left in the world, considering risking their lives and my own, all for the person who put us here in the first place. What the _hell_ am I doing? But even as my frustration grows, I can't shake the growing feeling of necessity that plagues me.

After a half an hour of thought, I climb back through the window and throw on a thick jacket. I've decided that I need more information before I do anything—and the only person I can get that information from is Hermione herself. I unlock the door and am relieved to see that Fred and George aren't determined enough to still be sitting there. I figure that had this all taken place back before Voldemort's takeover, they would have been persistent enough to go outside and climb through the window, or to use one of their own inventions to blast the door in, but most of their antics now are for the purpose of cheering up the rest of us, not for their own enjoyment.

Most of the others are sitting in the living room when I walk in. They all stop their conversations immediately and look at me.

"I'm going out," I announce awkwardly. "Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I just have some unfinished business to take care of. I should be back by nightfall. If I'm not back by tomorrow morning, then you can start worrying."

"Are you going back to wherever you were last night?" asks Ginny quietly.

"Yeah. Not everything got taken care of." I dare to look at Hagrid and Ron. Hagrid gives me a slight nod, a sign that he will back me up. Ron simply stares at me with sadness, and possibly even pity. My chest tightens at his facial expression, but I manage to say, "Ron, you're in charge while I'm gone."

"Probably for the best. I'm thinking a lot more clearly than you right now," he says calmly. I can see the flash in his eyes. His mellow mood has deteriorated and he's growing angry with what he considers my foolishness.

Even as murmurs break out, I don't respond. I head straight for the door without another word and step out into the frosty, biting winter air. A desolate wind sweeps the snow and the gray blanket of clouds overtakes the sun. I close my eyes and begin the process of Apparition.

It's around eleven a.m. when I reach the forest's edge again. It's a long hike between here and the safe Apparition point. I'm beginning to wonder why I've come now—I won't be able to make any move until nightfall, when I told my group to expect me back by. I suppose I'd simply needed to get away from everyone, and somehow waiting here seems a lot nicer than waiting back there.

I decide that climbing a tree would be safest. I'll have a better vantage point and people will be less likely to see me. The trees' trunks are coated in slippery frost and it takes me many attempts, and just as many painful falls, before I make it to the safety of a low, bushy branch.

The silence of the snow is relaxing as it begins to fall anew. As uncomfortable and cold as the tree is, I settle back and close my eyes, letting the flakes of snow speckle my hair and listening to the calming quiet.

I must have started dozing off, because when I heard the disruption, I awoke with a start. Suddenly the silence is broken, and I struggle up from my near-unconsciousness. I peer over the tree branch and see two figures making their way toward the Whomping Willow. One figure is tall and regal, its hand clamped firmly on the shoulder of a smaller figure, which has its head bowed. After a moment, I realize that the taller one is none other than Lucius Malfoy himself, new Headmaster of Hogwarts. Of course, it isn't called Hogwarts any longer—Lucius and Voldemort have renamed the school Puerclades, but I refuse to call it that. To call it by their name would be to admit defeat. It will always be Hogwarts to me.

I focus on the smaller figure now. It has to be a student. But why would the Headmaster lead a student out to the Whomping Willow? I must squint my eyes through the snow to make out any details of the distant figure. It takes me several seconds, then my eyes widen. It's Hermione.

I watch Lucius take a long stick and prod the knot at the base of the tree. It goes still and he shoves Hermione down into the secret passage below. He lets go of the knot and jumps in himself.

My heart is thudding as I grow more anxious. I don't know what's going on, but I know that I don't like it. Whatever Lucius is doing can't be good. It's obvious, even from such a great distance, that Hermione is not going with him willingly. I jump down. I'm going to see what's happening. I'm risking exposure and I know it, but I simply can't wait here and wonder what's happening out of my range of sight.

I jog through the snow toward the tree, praying no one is watching from the windows of the castle. I begin to slow as I near the trunk—I'm a fast sprinter, but the run from the forest to the willow is more than just a dash. It takes me a minute or two to reach it, and by the time I arrive, a stitch in my side is causing me an agony I force myself to ignore. I grab the same stick Lucius used and prod the knot. I try not to make any noise as I descend the steps into the dark, concrete hallway beneath the tree, wishing not for the first time that I'd had the presence of mind to grab my Invisibility Cloak. I dig my wand out of my pocket and walk forward cautiously. There's a blind corner about fifteen yards ahead and I'm certain that I can hear voices from around the bend, although I can't make out what's being said.

My steps are slow and quiet. The fifteen yards creeps by so slowly that I begin to think hours have passed. I'm only halfway there when I hear a voice ring out: "_Crucio_!"

My eyes widen as I hear Hermione's anguished scream. All thought of caution is lost, and I dash wildly for the corner. I force myself to calm down as I reach it, pressing my back to the wall and craning my neck just slightly around to catch a glimpse of what lies beyond. To my surprise, I see nothing but an empty hallway stretching onward for quite a distance. But I can still hear Hermione's screams and Lucius's laughter. As I begin to wonder if I've been tricked, Hermione stops screaming, and I can hear a footfall and a dull thud.

"How did you like that, Mudblood? I've always wondered if the Cruciatus Curse begins to lose some of its strength after one has been put under it a certain amount of times. What do you think?"

I stay standing resolutely where I am, horrible though it is to hear these things and do nothing. If I listen long enough, I tell myself logically, I may see with certainty where Hermione's loyalties lie. Still, though, I am baffled by the fact that I can't see either of them. I rack my brain, knowing I've heard this somewhere …

A Wall of Invisibility, I realize triumphantly. Ironically enough, it was something Hermione had mentioned to me during fourth year, when we were researching useful spells for the Triwizard Tournament. Now I only have to remember the counter-spell. What was it?

Lucius carries on, his voice fuelling a bitter fire within me. "Not feeling particularly chatty today? That's all right. We can find other ways to occupy the time, I'm sure. Get on your feet!"

_What was it, what was it?_ I think frantically, my panic increasing as I hear Hermione whimper. _Claritio, Acclear … _

"Move quicker!" Lucius snaps, and there is another dull thud, followed by a cry of pain. It sounds as though he's kicked or hit her. "Now, get up, Mudblood, and address me as 'Master'!"

Sickened, I hear her reply, "Yes, master." Her voice is not full of the loyal ardor of a Death Eater, though, but rather, sounds entirely broken.

At last, it comes to me, and I whisper "_Acclaro_!"

The Wall of Invisibility vanishes and I can now see what it had concealed. Hermione is struggling to stand, leaning against the wall of the corridor, bloodied and shaking. Lucius stands before her, his back turned to me. The sight causes a powerful anger to erupt within me, but I force myself to hold it back, knowing that doing anything rash will only be to my detriment.

"You tremble in fear … I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be courageous?" Lucius mocks, reaching out and stroking the side of Hermione's face. She shuts her eyes tightly and shudders. Growling, Lucius draws back his hand and slaps her. "But then, Gryffindors aren't supposed to betray their friends either, are they? I guess the Sorting Hat made a mistake with you, now didn't it? You will answer when I ask you something, Mudblood!"

"Yes, it was mistaken," Hermione whispers, keeping her eyes shut tightly.

"Good girl. Obedience suits you," Lucius murmurs venomously. He steps closer to her and reaches out, running his hand along her arm, this time ignoring her shudder. "Now what shall we do with our time? Torture? Or something a bit more … pleasurable?"

I feel myself gag, my stomach tying itself in knots. I've heard more than enough. Readying my wand, I prepare to step out and reveal myself, but before I can, I hear Hermione respond softly, "You've never been particularly adept at either, _Master_."

A deafening silence follows, and I cannot help the grin that I feel spreading across my face. It vanishes a moment later, though, as Lucius pushes her to the ground and growls, "I'll teach you to hold your tongue, girl, or else I'll rip it from your body! _Crucio!_"

Rage roars to life inside me as Hermione begins to scream again, and I leap out into plain sight, aiming my wand at Lucius's back and crying, "_Expelliarmus!_"

Hearing my spell, Lucius barely manages to step out of its path, and spins to face me. Upon seeing me, his face breaks out into a sneer so reminiscent of Draco's that I'm forced to marvel at genetics. Behind him, Hermione has been released from the Cruciatus Curse, but she lies on the cold stone floor, coughing what looks very clearly to be blood.

"Harry Potter," he says, his sneer widening. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Drop your wand and let her go," I warn. "I swear I'll kill you if you don't."

Lucius laughs. "So you care about your dear Mudblood traitor now, do you? What happened to, '_you_ _betrayed_ _us_ _all_—_I_ _hope_ _the_ _Death_ _Eaters_ _give_ _you_ _what_ _you_ _deserve'_?"

I wince inwardly, remembering that those were the words I'd written in a Howler I'd sent to Hermione about a year ago. I grit my teeth and hiss, "Doesn't matter what I think of her actions, I'm not letting you hurt her. Now get away!"

"If you want the girl then come and get her! Let's see just how good a dueler you are. _Petrificus_ _Totalus_!"

A bolt of purple light sweeps toward me, but I dodge deftly. I whisper quietly, "_Furnuculo_!"

My own spell, murmured quietly enough so that Lucius doesn't know what I have aimed at him, does the trick. He doesn't manage to dodge my spell in time and angry red boils begin to appear everywhere, coating his face and hands. He roars in anger and hollers, "_CRUCIO_!"

Again I manage to dodge, though this time it is a much closer call. I see out of the corner of my eye that Hermione is beginning to crawl toward me while Lucius is preoccupied. I hope she gets to me quickly, so that we can get out of here; Lucius is a much more experienced dueler—this game of dodging will be short-lived, and then I'll be in for some trouble. "_Stupefy_!" I command.

Lucius jumps aside and the curse misses. He gives me a sneer. "Is that your best, Potter? Truly pathetic. How you've managed to evade us for so long is beyond me. _Engorgio_!"

This time his spell hits. My left arm begins to swell uncontrollably. It's an uncomfortable sensation, and it costs me some of my mobility, but I'm simply glad he missed my wand arm. I raise my good arm and shout, "_Reducio_!" A moment later, while he's still preoccupied dodging my first curse, I whisper, "_Jevelosia_!" He successfully dodges my first curse, as I had intended him to—but he has jumped right into the path of the Throwing Hex. It hits him in the stomach and he soars backwards, hitting the far wall. "_Expelliarmus_!" I howl while he's down and I see his wand flying toward me. I toss it to Hermione, as it's evident that she has no wand, and I pull her to her feet. She's hurt and leans against me heavily. I hear her groan in pain.

"Come on, we have to get out of here, he won't be down for long!" I snap, dragging her along.

She struggles against me and when I release her cautiously, she turns to face Lucius. She raises her wand and yells: "_Stupefy_!" Her voice is muffled with pain, but the curse hits anyway, and I can see Lucius slump. Hermione falls against me once more and I pull her along down the corridor. She is nearly unconscious and I can see blood on her face, trickling slowly out of the corner of her mouth.

We make it to the steps and climb upward. I can't reach for the stick to prod the knot while at the same time holding Hermione, so I make a mad dash for safety. One of the willow's branches whips my back and slices through my jacket, cutting into my skin. I can feel warm blood, but I don't stop to inspect the injury, allowing myself no more than a slight wince at the sting spreading along my backside.

Finally, we make it to the forest's edge. I collapse onto the snow once we have cleared the first few rows of trees. Hermione is fully unconscious now. I stare up at the gray sky above, panting. Here I lay, holding the traitor that put us in this position, having just basically compromised us all to stop her from being tortured. I've gone against everything I promised my group.

What have I done?


	5. An Issue of Trust

5

An Issue of Trust

"_I wanted to know who you really are_

_I needed the chance to stitch up my scars_

_I'm closer to you than I was in the start_

_Come dive right in and tear me apart."_

_--Adema_

To say this is bad would be the understatement of the century. I force myself to my feet, fighting to keep my exhaustion at bay. The silence that had just minutes before seemed so peaceful and calm now seems frightening and deadly. The falling snow no longer holds the magic it once did, but instead speaks of danger and potential harm.

We must get farther away from the school. We're still in plain sight if anyone should look close enough. I can't pick up Hermione, her body is dead weight. I drag her through the snow, further back into the forest. I'm well aware of the trail I'm leaving behind me. I may as well be leaving behind neon signs for any potential pursuers, but it's all I can think to do.

Once I'm out of sight of the school, I collapse again. I'm shivering from the cold and my heart is racing. What do I do now? I can't leave her here; she could freeze to death, and even if she doesn't, then she would have to go back to the school and Lucius Malfoy. If I had intended for that to happen, I never would have rescued her in the first place. Therefore, I must take her with me. But where do I take her _to_? I can't take her back to the hideout. Letting her know where it is would be a deadly mistake, and I've made enough of those for one day. Even if she weren't to betray its location willingly, under the influence of Veritaserum, she wouldn't have a choice. Not to mention the fact that Ron, Fred, and George would probably kill her on sight. So that leaves me back at square one. Where do I go?

Before I go anywhere, Hermione has to wake up. I can't carry her or drag her all the way back to the safe Apparition point, which I know I will have to go to no matter where I take her. Since she wasn't magically stunned, I can't simply use a spell to wake her up. She has to come around on her own and the longer it takes, the more danger we're in. Lucius will be expected back at the school and people will begin to wonder what's taking him so long. Someone will come down to see. Even if they don't, the Stunning Spell will gradually wear off. Any way I look at it, we're in a terrible situation.

I'm beginning to see what Ron and Hagrid were worried about. I was taking risks when it came to Hermione. They were worried I would take a risk that would fail and leave me in a bad place—leave us all in bad place. Their worry was not unfounded, I now see. They were perfectly correct, and unfortunately, it took my mistake to make me realize that.

I sit here shivering and berating myself for at least fifteen minutes before I feel Hermione beginning to stir beside me. By this time, I have worked out a semi-decent plan. It's the best I can come up with, anyway. I'll take her to the old cave Sirius hid out in during my fourth year. That's our safe Apparition point, so there's a Camouflage Charm over the front of it. No one knows the cave is there. We'll be safe and I can contact Sirius from there. He'll help me decide what to do.

"Harry?" says Hermione from beside me. Her voice is hoarse and quiet, her eyes squinted. "Where are we? It's so cold . . ."

"We're in the forest outside Hogwarts. It's snowing," I say bluntly. While the vicious hatred I once felt for her is gone, I have to keep my emotional distance. I can't show her compassion, can't give her anything she might use against me later. If Ron's right, that's what she wants and though I don't want to believe that, I know it's still something I must prepare for.

She struggles to sit up, shivering violently. For the first time I notice that she's in her Hogwarts school uniform, which includes a skirt. Her cloak covers her, but I imagine that she still must be very cold. _I'm_ cold and I have on a thick jacket and jeans. I realize that her uniform is mostly green and I narrow my eyes unconsciously. No, she's not wearing a Hogwarts uniform—she's wearing a Puerclades uniform.

She doesn't appear to notice my scowl. She cries out in pain and clutches her stomach. I remember thinking that I heard Lucius kicking her. I kneel down beside her, feeling sorry for her despite my vow not to. "What hurts?" I ask.

"My stomach . . . I think I have a broken rib," she whispers.

I shake my head. "You can't know that," I argue.

"I know what a broken rib feels like," she replies.

I don't bother arguing, understanding what she's implying. "What else?" I continue, instead of responding to her previous comment.

"My head . . . and I'm so cold . . ."

I see the dried blood on her head and wonder if she may have a concussion. She has a distinct blue tinge to her lips, a sign that hypothermia is setting in. I curse myself for not noticing her attire sooner and stand up, ripping off my jacket. The wind bites at me more harshly now, but I'm still dressed warmly enough. I give Hermione my jacket and help her into it, noticing her dazed, half-conscious state.

"Come on," I grunt as I pull her to her feet. She sags against me again, but she is conscious enough to walk as long as I support her. "We have to get out of here. It's a fairly long way."

It takes us twice as long to make it back to the cave as it took for me to walk here from it. Hermione can hardly stand, so I'm really supporting both of us. Several times during the hike, I fear that Hermione is nearing death. By the time we reach Sirius's old cave, I'm sure of it. Her lips are completely blue and her skin has a blue tone as well. She's shaking violently and her breaths are short and shallow. By this time I'm practically carrying her. She appears dazed and unaware, barely speaking except to complain of exhaustion, another symptom. I know better than to let her sleep—to do so would be to kill her.

When we reach the cave, she tries to sink to the floor, but I catch her and keep her standing. She blinks her eyes rapidly a few times. "Harry, please . . . just let me rest . . ."

"No," I say firmly. "Hermione, you're freezing to death. You can't sleep or you won't wake up. Hermione—do you hear me?"

She nods. Her eyes are glazing over. I remember thinking just four days ago how I couldn't care less if she were to die. Now all I want is to keep her alive. How did this all happen? When did the world flip over backwards?

I know that she needs warmth or else my efforts will have been wasted. I rip off my two shirts and take my thin undershirt off. I quickly struggle back into the other two before I get frostbite myself, clump the undershirt into a ball, and throw it onto the floor. I see Hermione nodding off and pause to slap her gently on the cheek. Her eyes refocus, and I dare to quickly pick up some twigs and sticks from the corners of the cave. I toss them on top of my shirt and pull out my wand. "_Incendio_!" I whisper, and bright flames shoot from my wand's end. The pile of sticks and cloth catches fire immediately and I drag Hermione over to it. I can see that she's slightly more alert now that the fire is there, but she's still dangerously close to death.

I move away from the fire and point my wand toward the ceiling. "_Adminiculus_!" A red beam shoots upward, hits the rock above my head, then evaporates. This is the signal our two groups have agreed upon. Dumbledore and his group, as well as my own, will be alerted to the fact that I'm in trouble. They'll know who it is that's signaling for help, so I hope that Sirius will be the one to arrive. I also hope that no one from my group shows up. I'm not ready to face that bloodbath.

I walk over to Hermione and shake her to keep her alert. I look outside where the wind of the blizzard still blows harshly. I'm glad that there's no view of Hogsmeade from here—it's a grim sight. Most all of the buildings are now no more than mere foundations, burned to smoldering heaps of rubble by the Death Eaters. The Shrieking Shack still stands, for the Death Eaters' personal use, but all other shops have been looted and demolished.

I hear a sound behind me and whirl around. Sirius stands there, staring at what must be quite a sight to him: Hermione half-unconscious by a small fire, with me sitting beside her. He shakes his shock quickly and moves forward.

"Harry," he asks cautiously, as though speaking to someone who is hovering on the edge of insanity, "what's going on?"

I point my wand once more at the ceiling and mutter, "_Securus_!" A green beam of light follows the same path the red just did. Hopefully this will prevent any members of my own group from appearing. I turn to Sirius and nod at Hermione. "She's freezing to death. I don't know much healing. Do you know anything to cure hypothermia?"

"Why?" asks Sirius calmly. "Harry, why do we want to save her? Just give me a reason, because right now I can see none."

"She's hurt, that's why!" I snarl. "Please, Sirius. I don't know why I want to save her so desperately—believe me, I've spent plenty of time wondering myself—and I don't have time to explain my tangled thoughts to you. Just trust me when I say I've seen another side to her. Trust me, and _do_ something!"

Sirius studies me, then nods. He looks Hermione over, wearing an unconcealed expression of disgust, then kneels beside her. He takes a minute or two to perform some complex spells while I watch anxiously. When he's finished, he steps back. Hermione is lying on the cave floor, appearing to be asleep. The blue tinge is gone from her skin and lips and she is no longer shivering. When Sirius pushes her closer to the fire, she doesn't stir. He sighs and sits down, putting his back against the stone wall and regarding Hermione's prone form through suspicious eyes.

"Okay," he says. "I took care of the hypothermia."

"Thank you," I say gratefully, sitting down beside him.

"She looks pretty banged up. What happened?" He states this as a fact. There's nothing in his voice to signal that he cares. I don't blame him; if I hadn't spoken to her as I have, I would react the same way.

"Lucius Malfoy was beating on her," I say. "She thinks she has a broken rib. I think she has a concussion."

"Yes, well, she'll have to live with that," says Sirius, and I can hear the fatigue in his voice.

"Are you all right?" I ask worriedly.

"Yes. Healing takes a lot out of some wizards, including me. I just did a very complex healing. It drained a lot of my energy is all." He looks at me. "Harry, I need some explanations. What are you doing here—with _her_? And why do you care so much about her well-being all of the sudden? Last time I checked, you wanted her dead."

Again there is the question I don't know how to answer. Why _do_ I care so much? Just because I have a hunch that she's a victim in this, too? I have no proof. She could still be decieving me and I know it. I could have just saved the life of a person who intends to kill me. Somehow though, I don't believe that. I do my best to explain what has gone on to Sirius. I'm aware that my words are jumbled and hard to decipher, so much so that I hardly understand what I'm saying. It's no surprise that by the time I'm finished, Sirius looks confused.

"Okay," he says slowly. "So you believe and trust her?"

"I'm starting to believe her. I definitely don't trust her. Not yet."

Sirius nods. "Good. I think it's a mistake to even believe her, though. She's proven that she's excellent at deception. And even if this all isn't a lie, she's put herself where she is. She doesn't deserve a second chance. She doesn't deserve your help." Sirius sighs and scratches his head. "But I suppose that's your decision to make and your help is yours to give. I don't agree, I won't lie to you about that, particularly since you have people depending on you. But I won't stop you."

"I won't risk the others for her," I assure him. "I know better than that."

"You've already risked them, and more than once," Sirius reminds me. "Running in there like that and dueling Lucius Malfoy? You were lucky. If you'd lost, then you'd be dead or they'd have captured you. Your whole group could have been sacrificed."

I know he's right, which hurts the most. I know I've failed them, chosen our enemy over my friends, and I feel almost like a traitor myself. I nod sheepishly. "I know I screwed up. But what would you have done? Seeing someone you once cared for being hurt so badly, knowing they could be killed? Hearing their suffering and pain? Yeah, she betrayed us, but I didn't think she deserved that."

Sirius shook his head. "My years in Azkaban were undeniably the worst of my life, but one thing I can say is that I learned a lot in there. One thing I've learned particularly well is that when someone betrays you once, they'll do it again if given the opportunity and motive, claims of redemption be damned. Hermione betrayed us all in the worst of ways. I simply can't believe she'd change so entirely in such a short amount of time."

"But what would you have done?" I press, a horrible feeling chewing at my gut.

Sirius looks at me hard. "I think you know the answer to that question, Harry. And I think you understand the reasons why." He looks away.

I can't say I don't, because just days before I would have reacted the same way. But the last two days have been a whirlpool of madness, and my head is spinning from my trying to keep up with all the things that have changed. I just nod in response to Sirius's words, ashamed that I've disappointed him.

"So what do we do?" I ask. "About Hermione, I mean? I can't just let her go back there now. They'll probably kill her. And if they don't, they're sure to use Veritaserum to get her to tell them everything she knows. She's a security risk."

"They won't."

I look across Sirius and toward the few embers that remain of the fire. Hermione is sitting up, still wincing with pain, but looking a lot more human than she did ten minutes ago. Sirius is watching her closely, but his expression is blank.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"They won't use Veritaserum," she says. Her voice is small and I have to strain to hear her. "They would have at first, but not anymore."

"Why?" asks Sirius suspiciously. His face is not so blank anymore.

"Because Lucius Malfoy is a cocky man. He's grown used to being able to torture any information out of me. He takes what I say at face value, feeling I'm too meek to lie. I can hold out against the torture if I have to and I often do. His ego is simply too large to accept the fact that I would dare lie. I won't tell him anything and he won't use Veritaserum." She scowls a little, but I can see the pain in her eyes. "He thinks it's more fun to do it the other way anyway. So don't worry, I'm not a security risk." She stands up. "I'll go back. Thank you for saving me, Harry, even if it was in vain." She turns toward the mouth of the cave.

"Wait!" I call, leaping to my feet. She turns to look at me. "Won't he kill you?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. I don't really care. He may, once he feels certain I've told him everything."

I bite my lip. What can I do? "Well, let me go and talk to the rest of my group," I suggest, not knowing what else to do. "Maybe there's some alternative. I didn't risk everything to save you just to let you go back."

"You've done more than enough for me already, Harry," she argues. "I don't deserve it. Just go on and forget about me. It'll be easier on everyone. I can't see why you've even done this much."

"Because I trust my instincts, Hermione," I reply. "And because my instincts are telling me to trust you. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you're playing me again like Ron thinks, but I can't ignore what I feel. I think that there's more to all this than meets the eye."

"You have no reason to," she counters. "I betrayed everyone. I put everyone where they are now. Those are facts."

"But everyone believes you did it willingly. Did you? Is that a fact?" I demand.

"Yes!"

"Well, I don't believe you!"

Silence descends again and I stand facing her, resolute. I can see the mixture of emotions on her face: pain, fear and uncertainty. I can feel Sirius watching this whole exchange intently.

Sighing, I say more calmly, "You still won't tell me what you refused to last night. Why is that?"

Hermione looks down and says nothing.

I shake my head. "I won't believe you did this willingly until you tell me what that is."

Hermione looks up at me, appearing frightened. "Harry, just stop it! Stop living in the past, in your own fantasy! I'm your enemy! I work for Voldemort! I betrayed you and Ron! Why do you want to be around me? You're the good guy, I'm the bad guy, that's all you need to know. Nothing else matters."

"If you're my enemy then why did you apologize last night? What are you trying to hide from me? Why did you keep insisting that there's more here than I can see?"

"Because I was lying," she snaps, her eyes flashing. "I was trying to get close to you so I could turn you in! I was trying to earn your sympathy, and you were fool enough to fall for it! Fool enough to take it this far! You always were a sentimental idiot!"

Her words don't hurt, because I can see the lie her in eyes. I take one step toward her. "Hermione, calm down. We both know you don't mean that. Why are you trying to keep me away from you? Why are you trying to hurt me with words you don't mean? Just explain it to me and I can help you."

A tear slides down her cheek and she shakes her head. "No, you can't," she whispers. "No one can. I won't betray you again, Harry. I promise."

She turns and walks right out of the cave and into the dark, stepping into the roaring blizzard without another look back.


	6. Exile

6

Exile

"_I'm going back and forth_

_No one to turn to_

_Slowly losing my mind, so what am I doing_

_If only you could see the pain and hurt in my soul_

_But you don't understand me_

_So how could you know?"_

_--P.O.D._

I walk outside into the blowing storm and feel the bits of ice and snow pelting my face. In a matter of seconds my skin is red and stinging. Even by England's standards, this winter has been nasty. I begin to shiver. It will only take a few more minutes before hypothermia begins to set in again. I promised Harry I would not betray him, and there's only one way to ensure that I keep my promise. While it's unlikely that Lucius Malfoy would use Veritaserum, it's always possible. I can't risk that. There's no reason to hold back any longer.

I walk down the icy path in the rocks. The whiteout is so bad that I can barely see. I finally find a decent outcrop of rock that looks steep and high enough. I step up on top of the jagged stones and look down. It's a long fall, but that's what I want. My teeth are beginning to chatter and my tears are freezing to my face. My chest is aching where Lucius's foot cracked my rib. But it's almost over. The pain will soon come to an end, and my days of living dawn to dawn will draw to a close as well. I feel no regret. I put one foot out into oblivion . . .

And I'm dragged backward by strong arms around my waist. I struggle against the grip, frightened at first. My fear diminishes and I realize who it must be. I begin to struggle in anger rather than in fear.

"Harry!" I yell. "Put me down!"

"No," he replies firmly. He's pulling me back up the incline and into the cave. He's too strong for me, so I finally give up and allow him to shove me back past the visual barrier and into the cave. I collapse to the ground once he lets me go. He has grabbed me right over my injured rib, and I'm having horrible trouble breathing. I look up at him and he glares down at me. "What were you thinking?" he snarls.

I cannot answer, the pain is so bad. I vaguely hear Harry call to Sirius in alarm as my eyes begin to black. I can't get the air I need! _Well_, I think distantly, _I'm_ _coming_ _to_ _my_ _end_ _after_ _all_ . . . Then I feel someone pulling back the arms that I have folded over my stomach and a moment later the pain begins to seep away. He's healing me. Suddenly I'm breathing deeply and the blackness begins to recede. They have saved my life. Again.

Harry's hands are on my shoulders, his face in mine. "Breathe, Hermione, come on!"

If I were not as weak as I am, I would have rolled my eyes. I _am_ breathing, I feel like saying. _That's the problem_. All I do is nod. He lays me back gently against the stone wall and backs off.

My vision is back in focus, and I can see Harry and Sirius exchanging a look.

"Okay," Sirius is saying, sounding defeated. "I see what you mean. That girl is either hiding something that could change everything we believe to be true, or she's the best actress I've ever known. Don't get me wrong, I'm still not convinced that it isn't the latter; but I'll give it the benefit of the doubt."

Harry nods and looks back at me. "You seem to be all right now," he says. I feel as though I am being interrogated; I probably am. "Good; now you can answer my question. What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

"I promised you I wouldn't give you up," I say. "There's only one way to ensure that I won't."

"What, throwing yourself off a cliff? That's never an option!"

I feel like screaming. Merlin, why does he care so much? I've spent the past two years convincing myself that making them hate me was safest for everyone. I believe that with every fiber of my soul and being. Yet somehow my deceit has not convinced Harry. He's putting himself back in the way of danger.b I know I will not be able to live with myself if he dies because I failed to make him hate me enough.

"Then what do we do?" I ask.b I am too weak and weary to argue—I feel like falling asleep right where I sit. Silence greets my query.

"I'm not sure yet," mutters Harry. "Sirius, can you think of anything?"

Sirius shrugs and shakes his head. He looks at me and I look away.

"I want to talk to her," he announces. "Could you give us a minute? No offense, but the atmosphere is too explosive when the two of you are both in here together. I'm not exactly the most neutral person, but I'm more so than you, Harry."

Harry glances from his godfather to me, finally nodding mutely and walking outside into the blizzard and out of our sight.

Sirius walks over to me. He kneels down so that we're at eye-level. Sirius is somehow different than Harry. There's something about him that's so calm and placid that I fear he will somehow discover my secret. "Hermione," he says. "Hermione, look at me."

I don't acquiesce. "Why? What does it matter?" I question in a defeated, dismal voice.

Sirius sighs. "Okay, don't look at me—but listen, and listen hard. I don't trust you, I won't hide that fact. But I'm beginning to wonder. It's a lot easier to hate you and label you a traitor when we're miles away from each other. However, being here, watching and listening to you, things are beginning to fall into disarray. It's obvious that you're hiding something. You're not good at hiding it, which leaves me wondering how you could have infiltrated Hogwarts as a Death Eater if you're that bad a liar. I have two ideas. One, this is all an act. You want us to believe you're hiding something when you're really not. Or, two, you weren't lying . . . ever. Something happened and you betrayed us, but you were never a spy, or a willing participant. I've learned a lot about judging whether or not someone is lying, and without a doubt, you are. But I'm having a hard time deciding which type of lie you're fabricating."

I pull up my left sleeve and show him the black serpent and skull burned into my skin. He flinches.

"I have the Dark Mark. What else is there to know?" I demand.

"Anyone can wear the Dark Mark," he objects. "It's what's in your heart that counts. The fact is, I never knew you or Ron as well as I know Harry, but I got the impression that you were as adamantly against Voldemort as he. No matter what I believe, I know you're a smart girl. I don't see how you could go over to the Death Eaters, knowing all you do about the subject. You would have known that the people you care about would be affected, particularly because Harry and Ron are your friends and because your parents are Muggles. Unless you don't care what happens to them." Sirius gently moves my chin so that I'm looking him in the eyes. "Do you care about what happened to your parents, Hermione?"

At the mention of them, I try to stay strong, to appear indifferent and uncaring, but it's beyond my ability. A sob escapes my lips, and my eyes begin to tear. I had long since known they were dead; that was hard enough to deal with. But when Harry informed me that Voldemort had tortured them to death . . . I can't hold strong, knowing that. Knowing I caused it. I had thought my lies were protecting the ones I loved. How could I have been such a fool?

Sirius nods. "I thought so. I think it's time you tell us the truth. You don't have to tell me, but you owe it to Harry. He's risked everything to save you. You can't keep lying to him."

Apparently having said all he has to say, Sirius stands and walkes over to the cave's entrance to call for Harry, leaving me where I am, crying for my mother and father, and for my own disgusting stupidity.

Harry reenters the cave and looks between Sirius and I, gauging the situation. He and Sirius talk in hushed voices for about five minutes, too far away for me to hear them. I'm regaining control of myself, and I can see that they are obviously arguing. About me, I suppose. What else? Finally, I see Sirius nod, but it's obvious he's still not happy.

Harry walks over to me. "Can you stand?" he asks, and extends a hand to pull me up. I nod and take it, wiping my eyes again. In a gentle tone, he questions, "Are you okay?"

I can tell from the look in his eyes that he really does care. I'm not sure where that leaves me. What can I do now? Perhaps it is time I tell him the truth. He won't stop asking until he knows, and he's already in the danger I'm trying to protect him from. Still uncertain, I nod.

Sirius walks over. "It's getting dark. The others will be worrying about you. Harry, are you sure about this?" He looks very unhappy.

"Yes," says Harry in a voice that allows for no arguing. "There's no other option, Sirius. I'm not going to leave her here. And my group can think what they want."

"They'll have to live by your decision," Sirius warns. "If things go badly, they'll have to _die_ by your decision. Are you sure you don't want me to go ahead and ask . . . ?"

"Nobody is going to die, Sirius, and no. I know what they'll say, no matter what my argument is."

"Harry, you're not being fair. You lead those people, they look up to you and depend on you to keep them safe. Being a leader means you have to sacrifice things on your own behalf; you can't just look out for your own interests."

"I know that!"

"Do you really?" asks Sirius quietly. "Because right now you're not performing as a leader should—not at all."

Harry sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I know I'm screwing up right now, but this is all I can think to do. And if it works out, it will help us all."

"And if it doesn't?"

Harry looks away and doesn't reply. "We'll just see. Thank you for your help," he says. They embrace briefly and Harry turns to me. "You're coming back to my hideout with me."

My eyes widen. "Aren't you afraid I'll betray you?"

"Yes, I know there's that possibility. But I'm willing to take that risk, because I don't believe you will. So take my hand and I'll Apparate us there. You're too weak to Apparate yourself."

Stunned that he trusts me this much, I do nothing. He takes my hand himself and closes his eyes. Just as I do the same, I feel the dizzying, spinning feeling that comes with Apparation, and a moment later we're out in the cold again. We appear to be in a forest, in front of a rundown, well-lit Muggle cabin in the late dusk. Harry pulls me up the steps and opens the door. Clearly he doesn't intend on wasting time.

I'm frightened. Not everyone will be as willing to give me a chance as Harry is. What will they do? Ron is certain to go ballistic. I tell Harry I would prefer to wait outside, but he refuses, saying I've already nearly died from the cold once today and he's not going to give it a second chance at me.

He pulls me inside and closes the door. The lights are on and a fire roars. I can't help but sigh in relief as I feel the hot air against my face; I can't remember the last time I've felt warm. For the past twelve hours, there have been three temperature levels for me: freezing, below-freezing, and hypothermia.

This place looks like the old cabin by a mountain lake my parents would take me to during the summers. The thought of them hurts and I push it away, forcing myself to observe my surroundings more thoroughly. Hagrid and Ron are sitting on the couch, facing away from us, talking quietly. My stomach clenches. It's serene in the cabin. In a moment, it will be pandemonium.

Hagrid and Ron turn to see who has entered.

"Harry!" cries Ron, leaping to his feet. "Merlin, pal, we've been freaking out here . . ." He finally takes notice of me and freezes in mid-sentence. For about twenty seconds he is still as a statue, stunned. Slowly, he begins to redden and yells, "What is _she_ doing here? Have you been Imperiused? _ARE_ _YOU_ _CRAZY_!" Ron lunges, but Hagrid pulls him back with one hand. Ron struggles viciously, but Hagrid holds on.

"Harry," says Hagrid in a disappointed sort of way. "Yeh shouldn' have brought her here! We can' trust her. Yeh may well've killed us all!" He gives me the same look of disappointment before looking down. It's almost worse than Ron's anger.

More people are appearing, attracted by Ron's shouting. The other members of Harry's resistance group are slowly trickling into the little sitting area that had mere moments ago been so peaceful. The first two to arrive are Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom. Neville stares at me with an innocent, hurt expression on his face and once he recovers from his shock, he whispers, "Hermione, how could you?"

Ginny steps up next to her brother and begins to berate Harry and I in a similar fashion. Soon Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson, and Fred and George Weasley appear, too. The Weasleys are the angriest, Ron in particular. While Fred and George attempt to hold back their ferocious younger brother, they glare at me with the utmost hatred. Ginny has stopped yelling at me and is standing beside Neville again. She's crying and he's trying to calm her down, still looking too shocked to do anything else. Katie and Angelina seem to have taken notes from Fred and George, and are simply glaring silently.

"ENOUGH!" yells Harry, startling everyone. "Ron, _sit_ _down_! Fred, George, put a curse on him if you have to, but calm him down and shut him up! Ginny, it's okay, just take a seat. Everyone, sit down, or stand up, but just _listen_! Be civilized. We can talk about this."

"Talk about it?" howls Ron. "With _her_? You can't talk to people like that! They're sociopaths, monsters with no feelings! You can't make deals or be _civilized_. Kill her, or kick her out, _then_ we'll talk!"

I'm trying desperately to hold back my tears—crying will probably only make them hate me more. I know that this is what I wanted to achieve; I know I wanted them to hate me, but this is too hard. I desperately want to run from the cabin, and feel certain that I will if this doesn't end soon.

"Ron, shut up!" snaps Harry. "Look, we all know what she's done, but over the past two days, I've begun to wonder. Just hear me out." And so they do. They listen, but their eyes are trained on me, glaring, accusing, condemning. I cannot bear to look up from the floor. Finally, Harry finishes, but only silence greets him.

"I think we need to have a counsel about this," decides Fred. Harry begins to step forward, but Fred holds up a hand and gives one quick, sharp shake of his head. "Not you."

The others gather in a big circle in the center of the room while Harry and I stand on the outside. He says nothing to me, and I don't think I can speak without sobbing, so I stay quiet as well. Finally, after at least five minutes, the group breaks apart and Hagrid steps forward, a gloomy expression on his face.

"Harry, yeh endangered all o' us by goin' ter see her an' bringin' her here. Ron an' I are supposed ter stop yeh from doin' things like that. We couldn' stop it, but we can prevent it from happenin' again. Yer no longer the leader. Ron, as second in command, will be our new leader."

I look at Harry. He looks as though he's been slapped. Clearly, he didn't expect this, but he nods slowly. "I wouldn't expect any less, I suppose. I deserve it," he says quietly.

"Second, she can' stay here. Unfortunately, she's now seen where we are. Memory charms are never fool-proof, so it's not safe ter give her one. Powerful Dark magic can reverse the spell—even one o' tha' git Lockhart's memory charms can be reversed by a powerful enough Dark wizard. You-Know-Who could do it." Hagrid sighs, running a hand though his hair and looking depressed. "So, tha' leaves us with two options. One is that we kill her. Some of us are very much for that idea."

My insides freeze. I never imagined they'd kill me. Certainly, I no longer fear death, but to die at their hands? Merlin, they wouldn't . . . would they? These were the kids I'd grown up with, my one-time classmates and friends, all good-hearted, all very much opposed to murder. They didn't have it in them. But things have changed, times have made them crueler, and looking at the expression on Ron's face, I have no more doubts. He could. He would.

"No," Harry refuses. "What's the other?"

"She's thrown out, an' you go with her."

"_What_?"

Ron stands up and walks over to stand in front of Harry. His face is deep crimson, and he's just barely holding back his rage.

"You heard him. I don't want to lose you as a friend, but the fact is, I can't live with the fact that you're willing to trust her. She leaves and you go with her, to keep an eye on her. I don't care where you go, but you have to be with her. You can come back any time you like. But before you do, you have to do away with her properly." He glares at me. "And you know what that means."

Harry is staring in shock. "You've got to be kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

Harry stares and slowly shakes his head. "Okay," he says after a long pause. "If that's the way you want it." He takes my arm and begins to pull me toward the door. I'm frozen by shock and can't think quick enough to move with him, so he stops as well, turning to face Ron again. "We'll go."

Ron let's out a humorless laugh. "You're really willing to leave us all because of her? Merlin, Harry, if it weren't for her you wouldn't have to make this decision!" He shakes his head in disgust and turns to me. "And you know what I think of you and all your lies and everything you've done to me and my family?" He spits at me. It was intended to hit my face, I'm sure, but I dodge. I stare at him. It hurts more than a physical blow. He turns away. "Go on, then, Harry. Go with the traitor."

Harry says nothing. There is no anger on his face, just a bleak, painful resignation. He turns and leads me with him. We walk out the door and a moment later it's slammed at our backs. Harry sits on the wooden steps leading up to the door and buries his head in his hands.

Still I continue to cause the people I care about pain. Their group has been divided, their friendship torn, and Harry sent into exile. All because of me. And still, after all I've done, after all I continue to do, he is only one willing to stand beside me, the only one who believes I'm not as bad as I pretend to be.


	7. Hermione's Truth

7

Hermione's Truth

"_I've crossed the last line_

_From where I can't return_

_Where every step I took in faith betrayed me_

_And led me from my home."_

_--Sarah McLachlan_

I slide back against the rock wall as my legs collapse beneath me. The constant combination of exhaustion, terror, and cold is very draining. I watch as Harry sends the red sparks to the roof of the cave again and then sits down, leaning against the wall across from me. His eyes land on me for a moment, only to slide past. I'm sure that if for some reason he didn't before, he hates me now. How could he not? It's my fault that he's been thrown from his home, from the only people he could a family. Once again, I'm destroying his life.

Yet somehow, he does seem to forgive me. For if he didn't, why would he have walked out, agreeing with Ron's second term? He could easily have kept his place in his group by ordering my death. He had not. I sigh. I simply am not capable of understanding Harry anymore. The frightening part is, he seems perfectly capable of understanding me. In just two and a half days' time, he's managed to access the secret parts of my mind, the parts I've kept hidden from everyone for two years. I'm not sure how he does it, which frightens me further. Who knows what dark secrets he'll manage to dig from my past, secrets I've been desperate to keep hidden for so long?

We're back in the cave. It's fully dark now, but the wind still whips and the snow still spirals. The cave is bitterly cold in comparison to the toasty cabin we just left. Harry has deemed this the best place to hide for now. He doesn't bother sending up green sparks this time, telling me there's no point; members of his own group will not come to help us.

It's a few moments of awkward silence between the two of us until Sirius appears. This time he has company: Professor Remus Lupin. I haven't seen him since third year, when he taught our Defense Against the Dark Arts class, but I remember how I liked him, and feel shame weigh me down further. How many more people will I have to face?

Professor Lupin looks at me, then turns his attention to Harry. His face is passively blank, so I'm not sure what he's thinking, but it can't be good. "What is it this time, Harry?" asks Professor Lupin gently.

For the first time, I notice the bleak, weary look on Harry's face. It's not a look that comes from a few days of hardships, but from years of them. He's lost all confidence in the idea that life can contain anything more than heartache. I can see it in the depths of his emerald eyes, which are no longer bright and curious as they always had been. Now they're dull, without any of the old spark. Immediately, my heart goes out to him. I understand that look exactly—it's the look I have myself. I'm unsure of how I've managed to miss it for so long. It's another painful blow, realizing that I'm the cause of it.

Harry sighs. "They've kicked me out," he mutters. "They had me choose between her and them."

"And you chose her," says Sirius simply. He looks at me, and now there is a plea in his eyes. He is begging me not to let Harry's choice to stand by me have been in vain, and reminding me once more of what he said earlier—that I owe Harry the secrets I keep.

Harry nods and I can see that his eyes are now alight with a belligerent and challenging look. "Yeah," he says simply. His gaze dares them to argue that his decision was anything but correct.

Sirius just nods. Professor Lupin scratches his thinning, mousy brown hair and sighs. "Harry, that might not have been the wisest of choices." Seeing the look on Harry's face, he hurries to add, "Not that I don't trust you, but abandoning them at a time like this . . . they'll suffer without you. And you'll suffer even more without them."

Harry shakes his head and glances at me. There's some unidentifiable gleam in his eyes as he meets my gaze. "I won't. And I'm not abandoning them—they're abandoning me. I'm not saying I don't intend to go back someday, but right now, with all my heart, I believe that Hermione isn't what she appears to everyone else. As soon as I can prove that to my thick-headed best friend, I'll go back. But not without her. What other choice do I have anyway? I won't kill her, Professor."

I simply stare at him, at a loss to understand his reasoning. He's risked the entire life he's managed to rebuild, all for me—the one who destroyed it in the first place. How can he be so trusting? How can he be so caring? After all I've done to him . . . the very idea seems foreign. If roles were reversed, I can't say I wouldn't be reacting like Ron is. It makes me feel lower than ever.

Remus nods dejectedly and Sirius speaks up. "We can't bring you to our hideout. It's too much of a risk. But we can cast a Repelling Charm around here, along with a spell that will make the cave warm. We'll bring you some blankets. You'll have to stay here for now."

Harry agrees. "I figured you'd say that. Sounds fine—but we're also rather hungry."

As he says this, I realize for the first time that I'm truly famished. I havn't eaten in a long time . . . I struggle to remember just how long. Not today, certainly, and after everything that went on yesterday with Harry and my first attempted suicide, I'd lost my appetite. Over forty-eight hours without food. My stomach seems to grumble in an angry, reprimanding way.

"What are you going to do, Harry?" questions Sirius, who is clearly having severe misgivings. "Live in this cave until you find some evidence you may never find? It's risky to stay here, so close to Hogsmeade, let alone for an extended period of time. Just answer me this—what do you intend to do?"

Harry sighs and shakes his head. "I dunno at this point. But I'll figure something out. I'll improvise, like always. Just give me a few hours to work something out. Right now, we need food, heat, and somewhere soft to lay. If you can give us that, we'll handle the rest."

Sirius nods. "Okay. I'll give you twenty-four hours to work out something substantial. But if you can't . . . I'm intervening. Deal?"

"Okay, okay . . . deal."

We work in silence for the next half hour. Sirius and Remus Apparate back and forth between the cave and their hideout, gathering sleeping bags, lanterns, oil, and a great deal of food. Once such things have been positioned, Sirius performs an advanced charm on the cave so that it will be nearly impossible to enter. Remus casts a spell that makes heat remain in the room, no matter what the temperature outside. Finally, weary, the two men bid them farewell and Apparate back to their home. Sirius gives Harry one final warning: "Twenty-four hours, mate. No more."

Finally, Harry looks around. In the back of the cave, there are two cushy red sleeping bags with yellow lining. As I look at them, I remember the days when the House of Gryffindor still stood and such colors were the some of the proudest—the days when I wore those very colors. At Puerclades—it's an insult to think of that torturous place as Hogwarts; it may be the same building, but it will never be the same school—you can try as hard as you can to find even a speck of either color, but you never will. Four bright lanterns are placed at strategic points around the cave, giving off dull, but effective flickering light and casting moving shadows. We have a bag full of food in the center of the cave, near where we stand.

"Well," says Harry, looking somewhat awkward, "let's eat, then."

And we do. We sit down around one lantern, pulling out heaps of food and devouring it. Finally, after much starved scrambling, we settle down, our bellies content. Harry is picking the last bits out of an apple, and I'm swallowing the final bite of a granola bar. Though I can eat more, I understand that we must conserve the food. We'll need more tomorrow, and Sirius and his group must need it as well; we can't rob them of it all.

Harry looks up at me. I can't tell his expression by the dim lantern light, but from what I can see, it's blank again. To my best recollection, I can never remember Harry having such a completely unreadable face. I suppose it's another unfortunate characteristic he has acquired since we parted ways in the most violent of manners two years ago. I look down, his gaze more than a little unnerving.

"Hermione," he says finally. His voice radiates like a gunshot into the silence I'd grown so accustomed to. "I think it's time we talked."

I nod, but say nothing. _Talk_. That can only mean one thing: he wants to know the truth. Deep down, I know and understand that he deserves that much after all I've done to him, after all he's done _for_ me. But will he understand my side? Could he ever, without experiencing it himself? He didn't care about what I'd hinted happened to me at Puerclades until he witnessed it—and a rather mild time, in retrospect. How can he understand something so much bigger? And even if he can, is it possible for me to bring myself to speak of it? People say that if you hold a secret inside for long enough, it's like a fizzy bottle of pop—it pushes upward, waiting for its chance to explode. That isn't really true, though. After a long period of time, it just weighs you down, but you grow used to carrying it. And when faced with the opportunity to release it, you hold back as much as it's possible to do so.

Harry continues, not acknowledging my silence. "I've risked a lot for you. All I've been going on is my own instincts and a trust that formed from our friendship so many years ago. I need more than that now, Hermione. You owe it to me. If you make me carry on without knowing anything, I can't say I won't give up on you. That's no threat—it's just a fact. If you put your trust in someone for long enough, but they offer you no reason to, you can't help but get frustrated and walk away, eventually."

It's as though there's some sort of a painful lump blocking my throat. I can't swallow or speak. My eyes are stuck on the floor.

Harry sighs in a dispirited way. "All right then, Hermione. If you don't want to tell me, then don't. Maybe Ron is right and I'm seeing something that isn't there." He shrugs and shakes his head. I can tell this is no ploy to get me to talk—he is truly uncertain and disappointed. "I hope I'm right, but it could go one way just as easily as the other at this point."

He begins to stand and I suddenly feel desperate to prove to him that I'm not the evil person everyone thinks me to be. I want to prove that he's right. But is he? No, I didn't betray them in the way they think, but what I've done is just as bad, isn't it? Only a few Light survivors left, and those that do remain have hearts full of bitterness and hatred. Happiness has died and I'm its murderer. Is there any excuse for that? Is there any way to make that right? I can't see one. I may have been trying to do the best, but it turned out for the worst anyway. So that's just as bad. Despite that, I swallow the lump at long last and say, "No, Harry, wait."

He looks down at me, hope in a distant corner of his eyes, but weariness etched in his every feature. "What?" he asks in a melancholy tone.

I sigh. Saying the next sentence will commit me to something I may not want to be committed to. _Last_ _chance_ _to_ _bail_ _out_, _Hermione_, I tell myself. _You_ _can_ _still_ _save_ _yourself_.

But I don't. "Okay. I'll tell you."

There. It's out. The words I've avoided saying for so long have finally been spoken and my heart thunders in painful anticipation. Harry sits back down, his face still blank.

"If you want," he says casually. He tries to make it appear as though it's all my choice and that he doesn't care one way or the other. It _is_ my choice, I suppose, but he definitely cares, and is interested beyond words to hear what I have to tell him.

I put my head in my hands and think. Where to begin? Over the years, the story has become so tangled in my mind that it will take work and effort to sort out. And once I do get it all straight, can I keep myself composed while I explain? Can I simply narrate the tale without begging him to believe me?

Harry is patient with me. He watches silently, not pushing me, not annoyed. Finally, I look up and sigh. I begin telling the tale I've kept quiet for so long.

"It all started on Easter holiday in fifth year. As you know, I went home then. My parents dropped me off in Diagon Alley about three days before the week was over so I could get some things and refill my Potions supplies. The Apothecary is positioned on the verge of the entrance to Knockturn Alley. I got my Potions supplies and left, but I was right along Knockturn. Someone slammed into me—while I believed it was an accident at the time, I now believe it to have been deliberate. I dropped all my potion bottles. None broke, because I protect them with an unbreakable charm, but several rolled down Knockturn Alley.

"I had no choice but to go after them. It was extremely discomforting, surrounded by mysterious witches and wizards talking about Dark things. Several gave me odd looks, the prejudiced sort, you know? What was I, a fifteen-year-old Hogwarts girl who always stuck to Diagon Alley, doing venturing into their world? I couldn't find the last bottle, but I was beginning to get very scared because of some of the things people were saying. I was ready to turn around and buy another one just to get out of there, but then I spotted it, halfway down a small alleyway in between two shops. I went down to pick it up and as I was heading back out, I heard a group of cloaked men talking. I couldn't see their faces, as they had their hoods down so low, but I heard a snippet or two of what they were saying, something about '_the Dark Lord's plans'_ and '_Harry Potter and his friends.'_

"I tried to move, to run, knowing that as they had said '_friends'_, I was included. I knew that I was in a bad position being so close to them. But it was as though my feet were glued to the street. I was practically right next to them. Had I just kept walking, they'd never have noticed me, probably."

I shake my head. It feels as though I am reliving the whole thing over again. I can remember that day perfectly, as most people remember the day in which their lives change forever. Suddenly, I'm no longer in this dingy cave, telling Harry this tale by the dirty lantern light. I've traveled back two years in time, and landed right in the middle of that crowded street.

_I'm frozen in place. Harry? Ron and I? Voldemort? Words stream through my head, connected in a million possible ways. I've lost all sense of time_

_Then that moment of confusion is broken by a single voice. "Hey, kid, what are you doing?"_

_My head snaps over to see the group of Dark wizards, their heads turned in my direction. Though I can't see their eyes, I'm sure they're fixed upon me. My heart begins to pound. Here I stand, alone, helpless, down Knockturn Alley, confronted by several large men who have just been speaking of plans Voldemort has that concern me. This has to be one of the worst predicaments I've ever found myself in. "M-me?" I gasp. I'm surprised anything can be forced past the lump of terror in my throat._

"_I think she heard us," mutters another one._

_My heart races even faster. I have to run, and I try. I drop my potion bottles—they no longer matter. I begin to make a dash past them, desperate to get back into the safety of Diagon Alley. If I can get there, someone will help me. I don't account for the other people in the street, all of whom hate me for simply wearing the Gryffindor crest on my Hogwarts robes. They stop me, shoving me backwards, and in no time, those four men have me. They pull me down the street, to the laughs and jeers of the other people. They drag me to a large old buiding building with a worn 'For Rent' sign propped in the window and shove me inside._

_I've never been so terrified in my life, although I try my best not to show it. Certainly, I've been in tight spots in the past, but I almost always have had Harry or Ron at my side. This time, I'm terribly alone. While two of them hold me, the other two go about systematically closing blinds and locking doors. I have the sickening feeling that they've done this before. The building is empty except for some old, decrepit furniture lining the walls, clearly left there by whoever last used this building. One of the men grabs a rickety chair and despite my vicious struggles and screams, they get me into it and use light ropes from their wands to bind me there._

_The four of them stand around me, gazing at me from the impentetrable gloom of the shadows of their hoods. That I am unable to see their faces scares me even more._

"_I didn't hear anything, I swear! I don't know what you're talking about!" My pleas are desperate and my voice high-pitched. I know I mustn't sound very convincing._

"_Shut up, girl," commands one of them gruffly, pulling out his wand and aiming it at me. _

_My heart skips several beats. Is this how it will end? At the hands of vicious Death Eaters all because I had to wander down Knockturn Alley for my fallen potion bottles? I can almost hear Ron's voice in my head: "I always told you Potions was hazardous to your health . . ." Oh, how odd are the things that come to you in the ending moments of your life . . ._

"_Wait," says another, and I look over. He steps forward and looks me over. I begin to tremble under his gaze. I know that the Death Eaters enjoy torturing their victims before they kill them. This thought only serves to make me shudder involuntarily. The man continues to look me over and finally says, "Don't kill her."_

"_What?" one of his companions demands._

"_This isn't just any girl. This is the Mudblood friend of Harry Potter." He laughs, a chilling sound that makes my blood turn to ice. "To what do we owe this pleasure, dear Mudblood? I think the Dark Lord will enjoy meeting you."_

_I suddenly find it hard to breathe. Oh, Merlin, they're taking me to You-Know-Who himself! I begin to realize that perhaps it would have been better if they had just killed me, for my identity as Hermione Granger will only put me in a much worse predicament. The other Death Eaters have gathered together and are talking in hushed whispers. No one seems to be looking right at me, though it's impossible to tell. I begin to struggle against the light ropes, but I know even as I do that I will make no progress even given a century to work with them. Light ropes are known to be impossible to break and ones made by Dark Magic are even tougher. I can feel them pressing deeper into my skin the more I struggle. I slowly stop my fighting. The only reason I'd tried in the first place, knowing what I do of my bonds, was to feel as though I were doing something to help myself. For a few seconds, that helped give me a purpose. But as I cease my struggles, I realize again just how helpless I truly am._

_The Death Eaters break apart and one steps forward. "Do you deny your identity as Hermione Granger?"_

_I know that lying is futile. "No," I whisper._

"_And do you deny that you are the friend of Harry Potter?"_

"_No."_

_The Death Eater nods and comes closer. He breaks my bonds and pulls me to my feet. I attempt to break free of him and run, but he elbows the side of my head. My skull explodes in hot pain and I can't see for the film of white before my eyes. I'm so dazed that I barely feel them dragging me out the back entrance of the abandoned shop. My nausea only increases as I feel them pull me along with them into the process of Apparition._

_I hear a loud crack, and a moment later, I stand in a long, dark hall_ _before a pair of ebony wood double doors. The doors are covered in intricate carvings of serpents and skulls. The lighting overhead is dim and tinted orange, casting frightening shadows everywhere, and making the doors' carved adornment appear almost bloody. Without a doubt, I know who is behind those doors. My head pounds from the blow I've just taken, and my vision is blurry. As I watch one of the Death Eaters raise his fist to knock, I feel more like I am watching this happen to somebody else rather than living it myself. It has all happened so fast. One minute I'm buying Potions supplies, the next I'm confronting the most feared Dark Wizard of all time. This all has to be some horrible, realistic nightmare, of course. What else could it be? I just can't accept that anything so bizarre and terrible could happen outside a dream._

_The doors swing open slowly with a loud, ominous creak. The room into which we step is even more dimly lit than the hall had been. I can just barely make out a figure sitting behind a table some distance away. A high voice commands, "_LumosGrandai_!" The room fills with a bright white light so intense that it makes me squint my tearing eyes. The light seems to come from the walls themselves, emanating from everywhere and nowhere at once._

_And before me, more terrifying than I could ever have imagined him in my wildest of nightmares, stands Voldemort. His black robes billow around him in an almost elegant fashion, his hood pulled down to completely reveal his hideous visage. Against my will, I whimper as I struggle against the man who holds me. He laughs and pushes me forward, releasing me suddenly so that I fall to my knees. Suddenly, I'm on the ground looking up at Voldemort, a far scarier vantage point from which to observe my situation. As horrible as it is, I simply cannot tear my eyes away from him. His skin is sheet-white, his skull bald, too inhuman for hair to belong anymore. His eyes are that of a snake's, no more than menacing crimson slits. A serpentine nose separates the eyes from a maliciously smiling mouth. Just seeing this man could inspire a fear in you that you would never forget._

"_May we present you with the Mudblood friend of Harry Potter's, Hermione Granger?" says one of the Death Eaters as they all bow respectfully._

_The Death Eaters do not stand until Voldemort commands, "Rise." He comes to stand directly before me, and I can feel his eyes burning into my body, but I can't look up, can't make my eyes meet his. I'm shaking harder than I knew a person could shake. My breathing is erratic. I'm desperately fighting back the urge to cry—I will not give him that satisfaction, much as I may want to. Suddenly, I feel his hand on my head, and so unexpected and horrible is it that I gasp and fall backwards, ignoring the Death Eaters' laughter. I am desperate to escape his touch. _

_He laughs softer than anyone, but his voice alone stands out. He looks down at me and because of my position, I must look back. I blink rapidly, hoping in some distant corner of my mind that if I do it enough, the picture before me will fade into nothingness._

"_Intelligent. The wise know to fear me. The ignorant die because they do not." He kneels in front of me and I pray he won't touch me again. Never before have I felt such a touch. The moment his fingers brushed my skull I could feel a terrible chill of terror and pain run through me. It felt almost like walking through a Hogwarts ghost, only so much worse. "Do you want to live, Hermione Granger?"_

_I am too afraid to utter a single syllable. On top of that, I'm unsure of what I should say. Of course I want to live—but what if saying that angers him? In the end, I do nothing, focusing instead on holding back my tears._

"_You will answer me," he orders with cold simplicity, pointing his wand at me._

_I force myself to nod, knowing I can't speak._

_His soft laugh echoes again. "Good. I may just give you a way to save your miserable life, if you're a good girl." He looks up at the four cloaked Death Eaters, still hovering over us. "Leave." No one hesitates, scurrying from the room quickly and gladly, closing the door behind them._

_My fear has reached new heights. It's so hard to fight back the tears of terror, and my stomach feels as though it has been twisted into a thousand painful knots. I pray for some way out of this. I can't be meant to die this way. Though the Death Eaters are definitely terrible people whom I hate, it's somehow more terrifying now that they're gone and I'm alone with Voldemort. I have a new respect for Harry, having faced this man so many times in the past. I'm beginning to doubt my ability to survive even one encounter._

_Voldemort stands and walks closer to me. "Stand up," he orders. I can't move, so he reaches down, grabs my arms, and pulls me to my feet. Again the combined sensations of ice water, panic, and pain flow through me, blocking out everything else. I'm barely aware of my surroundings until he releases me. _

"_I know what you feel when I touch you," he murmurs. " Are you curious?" I honestly could not care less, but I nod to appease him, keeping my eyes trained firmly on the floor. "You are a Mudblood. My blood is the purest of the pure. Certainly, my worthless father was a Muggle, but over the years, I've managed to purge his blood from my veins, and along with it, every last bit of impurity to ever taint me. My power and purity of blood will not allow me to touch someone of such filthy heritage. Much like your dear friend Harry could not touch me." He smiles maniacally. "Of course, that no longer applies."_

"_Harry is a greater wizard than you'll ever be," I find myself saying, my voice shaking, but firm with belief nonetheless. I'm not even conscious of thinking the words, let alone deciding to say them. The moment they're out of my mouth, I regret them._

_His eyes narrow and his sense of morbid amusement vanishes instantly. He raises his wand and for the first time in my life, I feel the power of the Cruciatus Curse. It is truly the worst of all magic combined in one. The pain is so near unbearable that I find myself wishing for death. It feels as though white-hot knives are being plunged into every inch of my flesh. It does not end for what seems like hours. Finally, I'm left panting and sobbing on the ground. _

_He steps forward and kicks me in the side, which does nothing to help me as I struggle to stand. I fall back and gasp for lost breath. _

"_Never say that again, Mudblood. You will show respect to _me_, not to the fifteen-year-old boy who has no more than mere luck on his side. Do you wish to disagree with that?"_

_I don't know where my sudden burst of rebellious courage comes from, but I find myself snapping, "Why does my saying that I respect Harry bother you so much? Because it's true that he's stronger? Because you know you'll never beat him"_

_Again it comes, longer and with more force this time. Even after he stops, the agony lasts. I know from my reading that repetitive use of the Cruciatus Curse is deadly—or if you're lucky, simply maddening. I fear that I'm dangerously close to the breaking point, for surely I cannot take that pain much more. I've lost all sense of logical thought, my mind numbed by the lasting pain._

_He stoops down and grabs my shoulders in a vice-like grip. The sensation of his touch pales in comparison to the Cruciatus Curse, and I hardly even notice it this time. "Say that Harry Potter's power is nothing compared to mine. Say it, Mudblood, or else we can continue our game."_

"_N-Ne-ever …" I gasp, shutting my eyes as though hoping that if I will myself away from here, the pain I know is coming won't reach me._

_And this time the pain is so great that I feel as though I would do anything to end it, anything to make it stop, to get just some smidgen of relief. I feel as though I'm being torn apart, hacked into pieces, still alive to feel every blow …. As the curse lifts, I'm barely conscious, fluttering between blessed blackness and awful life, and I can feel how this would drive someone mad, I know that anymore of this will surely push me into insanity …_

_Voldemort kneels before me again, grabbing the collar of my shirt and pulling my limp head up to face him. "This is your last chance, Mudblood. Do you disagree that Harry Potter's power pales in comparison to mine?"_

_I yearn to yell that yes, I do disagree. That I will never show him respect, even if it means my death, and that I will never turn against Harry. But the pain has chased away all my belligerence and has left me hollow and terrified. I can't take that again and I know it. I shake my head, desperate to make it all end, hating myself for my weakness._

_He lets me go and I fall back to the ground, letting the tears run freely now with disregard for his satisfaction. "Perhaps I should just kill you. You don't seem too willing to save your own life. It's a pity, because you could have saved the lives of your precious Harry and his Weasley friend as well, but I suppose it's no matter." He stands and points his wand at me again._

_What he says reaches me. Save Harry and Ron? Certainly, any word that comes from Voldemort's mouth must be taken for a lie, but if there's any chance at all that he's offering me valuable information, I have to hear him out. "No," I gasp._

_He looks at me, pleased that I have reacted as he'd hoped. "Good, you are feeling more willing now?" I nod, ashamed by how he's broken me. "Then stand up."_

_This is something I'm not sure I can do. I force myself to my feet. My legs are shaky and I feel ready to collapse. My head pounds and nausea twists my stomach as the room spins wildly around me. I can't avoid it; I get sick all over the concrete floor. Weakened from my retching, I fall once more to my shaky knees with a disheartened sob._

"_Up, Mudblood!" Voldemort hisses, his voice full of malicious warning._

_I force myself to rise a second time, and this time I fight off the wave of nausea, though it is a narrowly won battle. He conjures a chair and orders me to take a seat. I obey, grateful to remove the pressure from my wobbling legs, and immediately two snakes appear from nowhere to bind my arms to the chair. I cry out at the sight of them. Real snakes, holding me tightly to a chair. I jerk my arm and the snake hisses, baring its tiny fangs. I pull my face back as far as I can._

"_My pets," says Voldemort, taking his seat once more. "They will not bite unless I order them to. Or unless you try to escape. And yes, their venom is deadly. Nagini!"_

_I look around to see whom he has summoned. A moment later, from behind a table on the opposite side of the room, slides what must be the largest snake I've ever seen. It looks more like some grotesque, legless dinosaur than a serpant. It winds its way toward me and encircles my chair before it stops moving. At my feet it lies, staring up at me hungrily in much the same fashion as Crookshanks eyed what we thought was Scabbers in our third year. All these snakes are frightening me even more. They were never something I was scared of, as some people are, but I never much cared for them. Now, as I am held prisoner by three such creatures, I can feel my unease mounting beyond simple dislike and into true fear._

"_Now that we are situated . . ." begins Voldemort, grinning nastily at my terror. "I suppose you would like to hear my offer. First, let us clarify a few things. You would, of course, like to see your friends live?"_

_I nod meekly, keeping my eyes locked on a bit of his desk where I cannot see him or his snakes but through the most distant periphery of my eyes._

"_There is but one way to guarantee their lives: by pleasing me. Because whether they live or die will ultimately be my decision."_

_I have grown sick of his verbal baiting and manipulation. "Just get to the point," I say weakly, but with a hint of my temper showing through. "What do you want from me?"_

_Voldemort's chilling smile does not waver. "You are indeed a smart girl. Foolishly courageous and loyal, but intelligent nevertheless. Given purer blood, you could have been a great asset to me, but alas, you will simply have to help me in ways more suited for someone of your status."_

"_Such as?"_

"_Such as getting me into your school."_

_My eyes widen. So that's what he wants from me—access to Hogwarts. "Why?" I demand after a moment of contemplation. "Why do you need my help? I'm a fifteen-year-old girl and you're asking my assistance? Surely a powerful Dark wizard like yourself can figure out a way to get inside without me."_

_His smile disappears and his upper lip curls in loathing. I shrink back as far as the chair will allow, fearing I have angered him again and praying silently he will not hurt me further. _

"_There was a time when I could have," he growls, making no move for his wand, much to my relief. "If it weren't for Dumbledore, I'd still be able to. Sadly, after my attempt at getting the Philosopher's Stone, he redid the charms guarding the castle. I cannot enter the grounds because of the magical . . . wards, or barriers, you may say. As long as those barriers are up, I am trapped outside. Only Dumbledore can deactivate him, and he would die before he allowed me in. The key to crushing him lies in the defeat of Hogwarts. I _must_ get in." His eyes burn with a dangerous longing, and I get the feeling that he has almost forgotten my prescence talking more to himself than anyone else._

_My confusion is enough to curb my terror, if only slightly. I ask, "But if only Dumbledore can undo them, then what help am I?"_

_His twisted smile is back. "Dumbledore feared that should he die, no one would be able to control his charms. So he secretly bestowed the power to open and close the magical gates to three of his most trusted pupils: you and your meddlesome friends."_

_I am stunned by this. Dumbledore trusts me enough to give me the key to the survival of Hogwarts? And now I'm in the hands of the nastiest Dark wizard to ever live, who wants me to betray Dumbledore's trust and open them. I can barely suppress a moan of horror. "But . . . he never told . . ." I stutter._

"_No, he wouldn't have wanted you to know of your own abilities in case you were ever forced to reveal them to me. Sadly, the old fool didn't realize that I have other sources of intelligence. I can teach you how to unseal them."_

"_Never," I mutter distractedly, shaking my head. I know that letting Voldemort in would spell the beginning of the end for us all and that's something I cannot allow at any cost._

"_Are you sure?" asks Voldemort coyly. "I wouldn't expect you to do this without offering you something in return. My desire to destroy Harry Potter has always been strictly personal. I will spare his life and my grudge if you do this. The same for the Weasley boy—I have no quarrel with him anyway. Trust me, there is no other way to ensure your friends' lives."_

_I am sickened to realize that his offer tempts me. Save my best friends at the cost of possible Dark takeover, or risk that one day we will all be killed? My mind is buzzing. "And if I don't agree?" I ask, already knowing the answer_.

"_Then I kill you, and your miserable little friends will join you the first chance I get to kill them."_

_As I sit in this hard metal chair, held here by the snakes that belong to the Dark Lord Voldemort, I feel that death would be almost welcome in comparison to this moral dilemma. But could I wish death on Harry and Ron as well? No, of course not. But to let Voldemort in would cause even more fatalities, wouldn't it? How can I sacrifice all of the Light side to save two people? But how can I not do everything in my power to stop the deaths of my best friends?_

_An idea begins to dawn on me. Unless . . . I could warn Dumbledore, and when I let Voldemort in, he'll be met with our forces. We might even be able to defeat him there, if properly prepared! The idea appeals to me and while it is arguably the riskiest thing I've ever done, it appears to be my best and only option. I know that I am basing this plan on the slim hope that Voldemort will give me the opportunity to betray him to Dumbledore, which is foolish to the point of insanity. But what else can I do?_

_I let out a shaky sigh. My mind is reeling with questions. What if I'm making the wrong decision? Before I can contemplate it further, I find myself muttering, "Okay. But how do I know I can trust you? How do I know you won't betray me and kill them anyway?"_

"_I thought you'd come around," he says, smiling coldly. He picks up his wand and I immediately flinch. The pain of the Cruciatus Curse is not easily lost on anyone. However, he does not point the wand at me. He points it at a patch of air over my head and does a complex pattern of waves, uttering an unintelligible word every now and then. An object materializes in the air over the desk separating us. "The Sphere of Truth," he says._

_The Sphere of Truth is truly a beautiful thing. It hovers in midair, spinning slowly. The sphere itself is made of thick crystal, with billowy royal purple smoke filling the inside. It looks much like a Remembrall. Criss-crossing silver beams encircle it from the outside, and it seems to shimmer. I am taken by its beauty. I've never heard of such a thing before, though it could easily have been in the Dark Magic books, which I have never been allowed near._

"_The Sphere of Truth is a powerful object," says Voldemort. "As soon as you give your word to someone, it traps your agreement within it. As long as the Sphere remains intact, the commitment cannot be broken. I will keep the sphere with me, for I have no motive to break it and terminate our agreement. To do so would mean that I could kill the boys, yes, but it would also mean that you could betray me, something I would rather didn't happen. Therefore, it is safe in my hands._

"_Now, Mudblood," he instructs, "say your name and your side of the agreement."_

_Knowing I must word my promise just so if I have any hope of warning Dumbledore, I think carefully before I speak. "I, Hermione Granger—" I begin at last._

_But Voldemort waves his wand suddenly, his cold voice crying, "Imperio!"_

_Distantly now, I hear myself speaking even though I'm not forming the words. I hear my voice vow to serve Voldemort and use the power Dumbledore bestowed upon me to let him inside Hogwarts. I hear myself promise not to betray him, not to warn anyone so that they might impede his plans. Finally, when he feels that he has eliminated every last loophole I might have given myself, he lifts the Imperius Curse, and I realize with dread that I've backed myself into a corner. _

_I watch, my throat and stomach clenching in realization of my mistake, as the Sphere of Truth, still suspended in the air, begins to change. The silver metal slowly morphs to a vibrant, glistening gold, and the purple smoke melts into a deep blood red. I can almost feel the energy it emits. _

"_Wait!" I cry accusingly. "You haven't said your part of the deal yet!"_

_He smiles chillingly. "Dear, foolish Mudblood. Did you really think that any deal struck with me would be one on which you could rely?" His cold laughter fills the room as I watch the Sphere dangle above my head, my words trapped within it, binding me to a betrayal I now wish so desperately I could exchange for death._

As I finish the story, the vision of that day fades. I can feel the horror of it all over again as I explain to Harry the end of the tale. I can't bear to look him in the face, so I stare determinedly at the stone floor.

"So I had no choice but to do his bidding," I say numbly. "And then the day came when Dumbledore left for a Ministry conference and I let the Death Eaters through the gates, having failed to warn anyone within." Finally, I look up, but my eyes are blurred with tears, so I can't see his face. "Harry, I know you have no reason to, but please believe me when I say I never wanted to hurt anyone! I was trying to do the right thing. I know it's no excuse, and you'll probably think this is all a lie, but I am so, so, sorry for the way things turned out. I hate myself for it. I was just so selfish that I had to find some way to strike a deal so that Voldemort wouldn't hurt you and Ron. I thought any life was better than none." I go quiet for a moment. "That's not true. Death is better than the life I've had to live the past two years. I always thought it was just easier to let everyone else think I had betrayed them in cold blood. That way no one would try to rescue me, or do anything foolish. It was, as I saw it, for your safety. Because that Sphere is still in control of me, Harry. I can't actively fight Voldemort. Not ever. But he can do whatever he wants to you—because he tricked the Sphere so that it only bound me. And that's why he's still hunting you." I let the first tear fall down my cheek.

"Hermione," he says softly. It takes me a moment to realize that his voice does not contain hatred, or anger—but rather, horror and sadness. He pulls me into his arms and we sit that way for a long while. It takes me almost the entire extent of that time to realize what this all means—Harry does forgive me.

For the first time in two years, I feel relief.


	8. Tentative Hope

8

Tentative Hope

"_All my instincts, they return_

_And the grand façade so soon will burn_

_Without a noise, without my pride_

_I reach out from the inside."_

_--Peter Gabriel_

I hold the weeping Hermione in my arms and think hard of what she's told me. I've watched her face the whole time she's been relaying her tale, and I can't claim that she looked anything but truthful. But she was so good at decieving us before . . . can I really believe my eyes? I'm desperate to do so, but despite the sacrifices I've made, I'm still unsure. It takes a long time to regain trust in someone who committed such a betrayal.

If she is telling the truth, then Sirius was right—this changes everything we few survivors have believed. This could change the tide of the war. Perhaps it would give the despairing people back some hope—hope spawned from the idea the Hermione Granger, long-called traitor, is really just a teenager who made a mistake and got herself trapped by the Dark Lord, like so many before her. Hope coming from the idea that there had never been a willfull betrayal at all. Perhaps that hope would be enough to stir up a revolt that could start a true war again, rather than mere scattered rebellion. And if we're in a war, then at least there will be some hope for success, however meager and unlikely.

Or maybe it will do nothing.

Maybe this is all one big lie, and there's no use in having fantasies of a positive future.

I sigh. There really are too many '_maybes'_ to do anything. I can't tell this to anyone yet. No one will believe me, and chances are that Hermione will forbid me to say anything anyway. I need proof before I bring this to anyone, with the exception of perhaps Sirius. Ron is definitely low on my list of potential confidantes. It will take him heaps of evidence to even begin to look at the possibility she's not a traitor, and a whole lot more than either of us can give to convince him. So looking at the prospect of evidence, I consider what it is I will do.

Finally, Hermione pulls away from me. Her cheeks are tear-streaked and her eyes red and swollen. The pain and apology in those eyes steal my heart. How could she fake that? Still, that irritating voice nags me not to trust her. I'm torn between loyalty to a one-time friend who says she needs my help and loyalty to my instincts. What do I believe? Can I even make such a decision?

She opens her mouth as if to say something, but lets out only a quivering breath. She's still trembling, but her composure is returning. Her eyes travel to the floor once more as I study her. While she looks pretty much the same as she did in our years at Hogwarts, she's a completely different person. The difference is in her eyes, which tell of the secret, untold horrors she's experienced in our time apart. She's lived many more than her seventeen years; so have I. The sad thing is, that fact is what keeps us separated.

"Hermione," I begin slowly, trying to gather the words. I'm not sure what I intend to say, but I feel I must say something. Now I'm drowning in a sea of words—or rather, diving into a shallow pool in which there are not enough to halt my fall. Finally, I give up the search for the right thing to say, instead just saying whatever I can.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the things I've said to you the past few days. I'm also sorry for saying what I'm about to. You know I've been all for giving you a chance, and if anything, I'm much more so now. But I can't put all my trust in you—you have to understand why. I'll do my best to get some evidence that you're telling the truth, but until I have it . . . I can't promise anything more than an alliance between us. I just . . . _can't_ trust you. It's not even that I don't want to, because I _do_. You don't know how much I do. But after everything that's happened, even forgiveness can't rebuild that trust so quickly."

I can see her flinch, but she nods. "I'd expect no less," she whispers. "I don't deserve your trust. Merlin, I was so stupid, to make the decision I did. I can hardly believe it myself. I can't see you trusting me even if you had proof I'm not lying."

"If I have proof, I'll do everything I can to get you a place in our group," I say fiercely. "Because if you're being truthful, then you never meant for any of this to happen. You were trying to do the best you could for people, while up against Voldemort as he tortured you. He's baited and manipulated thousands of people. You're not the first. And you're not at fault."

"Whatever you say, Harry," she murmurs. I know she doesn't believe me, but I say nothing more on the subject.

Silence reigns as I contemplate what to do from here. I need a plan soon or else Sirius will do as he has threatened. I know I need evidence to prove Hermione's telling the truth, but what could possibly provide such evidence? Unless . . .

"Hermione," I say suddenly. "Do you know where this Sphere of Truth is kept?"

She nods. "Yes . . . I've seen it a million times in Lucius Malfoy's office . . . Dumbledore's old office. He keeps it in this glass case." She frowns, and there is a flicker of anger burning in her eyes. "He takes great pleasure in reminding me of my stupidity every time he forces me in there."

I nod slowly. "Good," I mutter. She looks perplexed, but rather than addressing this, I add, "I think I have a plan."

We sleep badly that night. I lay awake the whole time, considering my plan, altering it and adding to it. I can hear Hermione beside me, tossing and turning throughout the night and by her breathing, I know she's not resting. I believe I hear soft sobs at one point, but I can't be sure.

When the sun's first rays peek over the distant hilltops, and the light is a tired sort of gray, I shrug off the sleeping bag. It seems so much harder to stay awake while moving. The fatigue is tearing at me and I know that whatever I may plan, I will need rest before I do anything. Hermione is dragging in a similar fashion and we eat our food in silence.

Once we finish, Hermione stands and walks over to the cave's entrance. Instantly, I stiffen. The last time she headed that way was to kill herself. I watch cautiously, knowing that my fear is probably illogical, but unable to stop it regardless. She sits down near the entrance and leans against the wall, looking out, and as she does so, I let out a breath I was not aware of holding. She must hear me, because she glances back at me. Though she attempts to smile, it's an expression full of sadness rather than joy. I walk over to where she sits, my hands deep in the pockets of my pants, my face expressionless as I stare out over the snowy drifts that rise and fall along the mountainside.

"It doesn't look like it's going to snow again at least," whispers Hermione in an offhand voice.

"No," I reply. The conversation is brief and unnecessary, but serves the purpose of breaking through the thin, icy wall we've unconsciously constructed between ourselves this morning.

"You thought I was going to try to jump off the cliff again, didn't you?" she asks after a moment.

I wince, knowing I'm cornered. "I guess … kind of. It was stupid and irrational—I mean, walking to the front of the cave is not really much of a basis for guessing—but yeah, I was scared you were going to try it again," I admit reluctantly.

She looks at me with a pained, conflicted expression. "You were scared? For me?" She sighs, and the breath is shaky. "Why, Harry? Why is it that you alone have managed to look past the façade I've put up when no one else cares to take the time? My intentions don't matter; I still betrayed you. How can you forgive that? It's beyond me to understand anymore."

I contemplate my answer carefully before beginning to explain. "Yes, I was scared for you. Because if you're telling the truth—which I pray with all my heart that you are—then I've gained back the best friend I thought I'd lost. I care about you just as much as I ever did. And I can forgive you because it isn't something you can be blamed for. I, more than anyone, know the tricks Voldemort is capable of. Contrary to your own beliefs, this is not your fault."

"No, I didn't _want_ to betray you," she acknowledges, looking down the mountainside. "But it was my stupidity and ignorance that placed me in such a position. That's just as bad."

"You made a mistake," I argue. "Not even you're perfect."

"Tell that to Ron," she says sadly, looking deep into my eyes. "Tell it to Fred and George and Ginny. To the relatives of everyone I've gotten killed. Tell them that, oh, by the way, I didn't mean it. It was only a _mistake_." Her laugh is as bitter and cold as the air around us. "Yes, Harry, I'm sure that's the way they'll look at it."

I can think of nothing to say to this. She clearly doesn't expect an answer as she turns her attention away again, and I'm left feeling awkward and uncomfortable. I still don't know where we stand. Just a moment ago I was arguing as though I believe her, but in my heart, I still don't. Not entirely. So what am I to do?

We sit here for at least an hour, shivering in the frigid morning air and lost deep in the confines of our turmoiled thoughts. I watch as the sun rises over the distant, gray horizon and paints the sky. I can't remember the last time I've seen the sun. Clouds have taken over my life, making it so that even when I remember sunny days, they are overcast in my memory. I have a feeling that if I look back on this day, I will view it as gray, too.

A loud crack echoes behind me and I spin around, startled, groping for my wand. I relax upon seeing that it's only Sirius, just having Apparated in, and I stand up to greet him. Hermione glances his way before turning her attention back outside.

"Anything new?" asks Sirius immediately. He never has been one to waste time—it's one of the things I normally like about him. Now, though, I wish he would beat around the bush for just a little while.

"Yeah. I feel . . ." I pause for a moment, considering how to explain my mixture of emotions. I sigh inwardly, knowing that whatever I say now will start me down a path, one I may not be able to retrace should I later find that my faith was misplaced. I shake aside my contemplations. "I feel completely confident that Hermione is our ally."

Sirius's expression is hard to read. He definitely doesn't look pleased, but nor does he seem to be disappointed in me. I can feel Hermione's gaze burning into me as she hears my proclamation, but I don't look at her. I know I don't have the courage. To look at her would mean allowing my mind to twist these words around, allowing me a chance to doubt myself. I don't have time for that right now, not if I want to present this to Sirius in a way that will help him to support me.

"And what are you basing this on?" he asks in the same weary, grim sort of voice that he has used with me since last night. I swear he puts on that blank face and shields his emotion just to drive me mad.

"I heard her story," I say, keeping my argument strong and confident, though no two words are less fit to describe the way I feel. "I believe her beyond a shadow of a doubt, Sirius, and I want to help her. But in order to do that—and in order to get proof that she can be trusted—I have to retrieve something."

Sirius runs his fingers through his hair and gives me another unreadable look. "Okay. What is it that you need to get?"

"A Sphere of Truth."

I've clearly caught him by surprise, and his eyes widen. "Er, Harry . . . those are very difficult to find, I'm not sure where I'll be able to get you one, especially in these times—"

"No," I say. "I don't need _any_ Sphere of Truth. I need a _specific_ Sphere of Truth. The one that was used to bind Hermione to an agreement she never actually made. Another bit of deception by the Dark Lord."

"I—I see," stammers Sirius, obviously having a more difficult time concealing his feelings as our discussion progresses. "You want to destroy it, then?"

"Yes. And use it as evidence of Hermione's loyalty."

"Do you know where to find it?"

Hermione speaks for the first time. "In the Headmaster's office at Puerclades," she says. Looking down, she adds, "In Lucius Malfoy's office."

Sirius falls silent. I can see the uncertainty etched in his every feature, can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. He doesn't respond to Hermione's words immediately, instead staring straight at me. His eyes bore into my own, and while I'm desperate to look away, I know that his gaze is far too binding to break. His eyes tell of confusion, mistrust, and worry, but I can also see in them a deep faith—a faith placed in me. He will trust my instincts and my beliefs. During this moment of silent contemplation, I understand that a decision is to be made—a decision that will ultimately be up to me. If I reassure Sirius, then he will, however reluctantly, go along with me. If I don't, then he will never trust Hermione, because I had even the barest hint of a doubt in her loyalty. That doubt will lead him to throw away any thoughts he might have had in her favor, and she'll forever be the enemy in his eyes. Though it's true that my mind is filled with a wide variety of hesitations and uncertainties, I simply can't ignore the voice in my head telling me to ignore them all and trust what my logical mind will not allow me to resolutely believe. I stop this debate and look at Sirius determinedly, not letting a hint of my reserve show in my eyes. I nod once. It is a barely noticeable gesture, but it's filled with a power that will not allow for any arguments. He's defeated and he knows it; I can see this in his every dismal feature, but he accepts it. He turns once more to Hermione.

"Are you're certain it's in Malfoy's office?" asks Sirius with resignation. He puts a derisive emphasis on Malfoy's name, but that's pretty much the only real feeling in his words. I notice the fatigue in his voice; he has the sound of a man who is about to forfeit an all-important battle. In a way, I know he is.

Hermione nods, but offers no more of an explanation.

"How?" Sirius presses. "If someone just told you, it isn't exactly credible information—"

"No one had to tell me," she replies bitterly. "He has a tendency to drag me in there on occasion for one reason or another. It gives him great pleasure to present to me that damn Sphere whenever I have the slightest urge to fight him on anything."

I glance at her out of my periphereal vision. The pain in her eyes speaks to me more than her words ever could. It's during moments like these, moments when she seems to be so vulnerable and wounded, that I cannot help but trust her. It's later that I look back on these times and question whether or not they're a decietful ploy.

Sirius can sense the hurtful memories that it seems he's triggered, but he doesn't apologize. "All right, then. Where in his office does he keep it? And, if you know, under what sort of magical security?"

"He keeps it in a glass case of sorts. It's right on his desk. Aside from having to get into Puerclades and then into his office, there are charms on it that will alert him should someone attempt to breach the glass. The glass itself has been enchanted with a form of the Cruciatus Curse; should the glass be touched before it has been magically released, the Cruciatus Curse triggers. Sort of like a Muggle shock, only far worse. Still, it's bearable if you're determined enough. I don't know what else, but I don't suppose that's all." As she finishes, I notice that she's shifting her weight between her left and right feet in a nervous gesture I recall from our Hogwarts days.

Sirius sighs and runs a hand through his thinning black hair. "Look, I'm not going to sit here and deny that I have my reservations about this. I've always tried to be honest when it wasn't absolutely necessary to lie, and I'm not going to be untruthful now. Harry, I think this is a bad decision. I don't agree with you in any regard. I'm all for giving her a chance, but not for risking your life. Hermione, to be blunt, I still don't trust you no matter what my godson may believe."

He peers at each of us searchingly before shaking his head. "Regardless, I'm going along with all this, because I'm apparently as mad as you are. Therefore, I'm going to say this now—this entire plan looks ridiculous. Getting into the school, getting into Malfoy's office, and getting past the magical defenses? That will be near impossible. And even if you break the Sphere, what will it prove? You can show it around all you like, but no one knows why it was originally instigated, or for what purpose. It won't convince anybody."

I let my argument die in my throat, realizing that he's right. Getting the Sphere won't help prove Hermione's innocence. Defeat pounds at me, but I push it aside. It doesn't matter that much. The fact is that this mission is no longer about restoring my place in my group, or giving others a reason to believe her. This is about me.

"Doesn't matter," I decide. "We're going for it anyway. I don't care if it doesn't prove anything to Ron. Ron's stubborn—it's hard to convince him to believe anything he doesn't want to. Eventually, with hard work from the both of us, he'll come around. But before we even try to convince Ron, I need proof myself." I look at Hermione. "I really believe you're telling the truth, but I need that Sphere to be positive. Aside from that fact, you can be a real ally in our fight against Voldemort—but in order for you to help us, that Sphere needs to be eliminated." I look back to Sirius. "Any way you look at it, we have to destroy the Sphere of Truth. We're doing it." My words ring with a finality that is not to be argued with.

Sirius nods and doesn't attempt to argue with me again. Instead he looks at Hermione, who still appears distant and guarded. "So how do we do this?"

Hermione doesn't seem to realize he's directing this question at her, because she makes no motion to answer. "Hermione?" I say gently, to get her attention.

She looks up at me, then at Sirius. "What, you expect me to know?" she demands after a moment.

"You know the school as it is now better than Harry and I," says Sirius logically. "Neither of us can even begin to make a plan without you. Can you think of any way to get into the school without getting caught?"

She leans against the cave wall and stares at her feet in silence. I can tell she's thinking from the way her brow is furrowed in concentration. Finally, she looks up at me and shakes her head. "I don't see how. None of the passages are safe anymore." She grimaces in shame. "I was forced to tell them."

Something clicks in my mind. "The passages!" I cry excitedly. "The day we were on the grounds, the day I first saw you in Gryffindor Tower, we were trying to get into the school. Fred and George found a secret passage that wasn't on the map. We didn't think the Death Eaters knew about it. I'll bet we can still use it!"

"The passage that's under a floor tile by the painting of those fourteenth century goblin monarchs in the corridor leading to the dungeons?" asks Hermione.

"I don't know where it comes out," I say slowly, my hope beginning to sink. "But you can enter the passage by crawling into an old, blocked up log half submerged in the water along the north bank of the lake. You tap the barricade of the log and say the correct word and it opens."

"Same passage," says Hermione defeatedly, sighing. "Draco Malfoy found that one about a year ago. His father is very much aware of it. There are always guards in that passage, along with the rest."

"Malfoy's still there?" I growl.

"Why wouldn't he be? It's a Dark Arts school. Most of the Slytherins still are there," she confirms.

"I hope I run into him while we're there. Could be fun."

"Right now, the problem is getting into the school, not what you're going to do once you're there," Sirius reminds me. I force my mind away from thoughts of hurting Draco Malfoy and focus once more on the task at hand.

"I suppose we'll have to keep it simple, then," I sigh. "Exercise the old Invisibility Cloak."

"And what, walk right through the front doors?" Sirius asks, sounding alarmed.

I shrug, knowing how dangerous it will be. "I meant simple in theory. Not so much in execution."

"That's mad," argues Hermione. "The slightest slip up and we'll be caught."

"There's nothing else to be done," I reason. "Besides, you definitely can't say they'll be expecting it. They'll be expecting some grander plan, which does give us an advantage."

"All right, then let's look at the next step: getting into Lucius Malfoy's office," says Sirius. "Even if you get into the school, you won't know the password. There's only one real way to get in there, aside from climbing up the side of the castle and into a window: we need him to let us in."

I stare. "What, you think we can just knock, and if we ask politely, he'll open up for us?"

"Not quite," Sirius murmurs. "If one of you were to just _accidentally_ be captured, then there's a good chance that Malfoy would take you to his office, right, Hermione?"

"It depends," she says slowly. "If the prisoner was important enough, he probably would. He'd want to torture them himself." She frowns, looking unhappy. "I suppose I already know the answer, but what exactly are you planning?"

Sirius looks at her pointedly, and she nods, looking resigned. "As I thought," she whispers.

"Not a chance, Sirius," I snap, as I understand what he's saying. "You heard her, he'd take her up there to torture her, kill her even! I won't allow it!"

"It's our only chance, Harry."

"No," I say resolutely.

"Hear me out before you refuse," says Sirius, holding up his hand, trying to calm me down. I am visibly angry. "This is my idea: Hermione, you walk into the school and pretend to be returning, surrendering. He'll take you into his office most likely, won't he?" Hermione nods, still frowning. "Good. Then, Harry will be following you under his Invisibility Cloak. Lucius Malfoy opens the passage up to his office, and Harry slips in after the two of you. You trigger the right vein of conversation so that Harry can verify that your story is correct. You say Malfoy likes to gloat about how Voldemort tricked you into your agreement, so get him to do it again. When the opportunity presents itself, create a diversion so that Harry can seize the Sphere."

I'm fully prepared to let Sirius have it for his suggestion of making Hermione bait, but she surprises me by speaking up.

"It could work," she says slowly. "It's completely mad, of course, and leaves so much open to chance, but I don't see any other way. If Harry's with me, then I'll do it."

I watch her for a moment and nod curtly, still hating the turn our plan has taken. "My cloak is still back at our old hideout," I remember. "I doubt I'll be all too welcome there."

Sirius nods. "I'll talk to Dumbledore. Give me half an hour." And with that, he disappears, leaving Hermione and I as alone as if he'd never even been there.

Taking advantage of our time alone, I turn to her. "Hermione—" I start.

"Don't try to talk me out of it," she says immediately. "It's my decision to make."

"I know, but I don't want you to feel as though you have to do this, not when it's almost guaranteed to get you hurt."

"Don't you see, Harry? I _do_ have to do this. We wouldn't be in this place if it wasn't for me. This is the least I can do. Yeah, Malfoy will probably torture me some, but I can deal with it. I've dealt with it for two years. I wouldn't be as eager if I were on my own, but if you're there, I think it'll keep me sane." She gives me a small smile and meets my gaze. "I'll be all right. But you have to promise that no matter what he does to me, anything short of killing me, you must maintain your cover. _Don't_ try to save me. Just wait it out until you have a chance to grab the Sphere. That's the most important thing."

I must appear as though I'm about to argue (which I am), because she holds up a hand and gives me a look that is so reminiscent of the old Hermione that I fall silent. "Promise me, Harry," she demands.

"I promise," I relent after a moment of internal struggle. Still, I'm not sure how well I'll be able to keep my promise, depending on what Malfoy does.

"Good," she says, looking appeased. "Also, once you get the Sphere, you have to throw it to me. Voldemort and I, being the ones bound, are the only ones capable of destroying it."

"Do you know how to destroy it?" I ask.

"Yes. I just need you get that Sphere into my hands. And I'll need a wand—they still have mine."

"Do you need _your_ wand to destroy it?" I ask apprehensively.

She shakes her head. "No—any wand will do. It will be harder with someone else's, but it's still possible."

I nod, but bite the inside of my lower lip hesitantly. She seems to sense my discomfort and reaches out to me, taking my hand in hers. For a moment, she looks at me uncertainly, as though expecting me to pull away. When I don't, it seems to encourage her a little and she says, "You don't have worry for me, Harry. I'll be okay."

"I don't believe that," I disagree. "You're telling me that so I won't worry. I saw what he was doing when I rescued you. He'll hurt you."

"It's nothing new," she says quietly. "I can handle it."

"But you shouldn't have to," I argue. "I don't want to put you in danger, Hermione. I don't want to see you hurt. We're doing this to stop the pain and suffering, not add more of it."

"We aren't backing out," she says stubbornly, pulling her hand from mine and turning away to gaze out of the cave mouth, her eyes full of determination. "I don't care what he does to me. Just get me that Sphere, Harry. I want more than anything to destroy it, for my own sake as much as anyone else's. That damn thing has kept me bound for two years and made me do things that are unimaginably awful. Because of that thing, my parents are dead, and you and Ron are on the run. I've had enough of it—I'm not putting up with it anymore. I'm going to smash it to pieces and show Voldemort that he can't hold me down forever. No torture can keep me from succeeding."

I can hear the strength and power in her words, and I can tell how much she truly feels what she's saying. It hits something within me as well. "Okay," I say after a moment, moved by her passion. "I won't fight it. I'm in."

She looks at me and her eyes are full of gratitude. In that instant, I realize that I've made some dream of hers come true. Thinking about it logically, she must have been wishing to destroy it for a long time. For her, this isn't simply a chance to prove herself to me, or to free herself from the Sphere's binding magic, but a chance to eliminate the one thing that has ruined every part of her life. Thinking of it in those terms, I can't help but think that this is the only right decision. We don't speak of it further, but we don't need to—we understand one another perfectly in our silence. For the first time since fifth year, I feel that we are one again, like we were when we were young. We're a team, feeling one another's emotions as well as our own. That sensation boosts my confidence. Hermione and I are partners. She won't betray me again—she never did in the first place. No more games of cat and mouse. This time, Voldemort will feel our wrath. This time, we won't back down.

And this time, we won't lose.


	9. Breaking Bonds

9

Breaking Bonds

"_This is my life_

_It's not what it was before_

_All these feelings I've shared_

_And these are my dreams_

_That I've never lived before_

_Somebody shake me 'cause I_

_I must be sleeping."_

_--Staind_

Fear is eating me alive from the inside out, but below the terror that pounds through my veins lies a force equally powerful: excitement and hope. For the past two years of my miserable existence, I have envisioned the moment when my hands would lift that wretched Sphere from its crystal perch and hold it high above my head. I would throw it to the ground and watch as a shower of crimson shards filled my world. It would be the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. No matter how many times I saw it in my mind, I never tired of it. But deep down, I'd never expected that moment to actually become real. Now here it is—a chance to live out a dream that has sustained me for so long. A chance handed to me by the last person I'd ever have suspected—by someone whom I don't deserve to receive anything from. By a friend I've betrayed in more ways than I can easily count.

As I stand here next to him, it's still too far beyond me to understand his thought processes. How can he forgive me so completely? Certainly he still has his doubts about my loyalty, but for him to even place this much faith in me is unbelievable after all I've done to him. Now he's willing to risk everything he's been fighting for to help me, when he wouldn't have to be fighting so hard for anything if it wasn't for me in the first place. I feel a headache coming on just trying to reason it out. In all my dreams, no matter how far-fetched, forgiveness from my friends was something I never hoped I could earn. And yet I've gained it from Harry—with no understanding as to how or why.

I suppose he sees my conflicted expression and mistakes it for worry, because he walks closer to me and, after a moment's hesitation, copies my earlier sign of reassurance—he grabs my hand and gives it a quick squeeze before releasing it. "We can do this," he says softly, full of confidence.

I consider correcting him, telling him that I'm not worried, just confused. In the end, I decide against it. "We seem to have switched places," I say instead, smiling faintly. "A moment ago I was reassuring you."

"We all need reassurance sometimes," he replies. He says no more, walking further into the cave and leaving me standing at the entrance by myself.

The silence gives me time to think everything through. I begin to realize that I'm dwelling far too much on the best aspect of it all—destroying the Sphere of Truth. In order to attain that goal, I first must survive the much harsher and more frightening elements of this plan. For the first time, I understand the full caliber of what I've agreed to. I'm going to allow Lucius to capture me. I have told Harry to do nothing to help me, to focus only on getting the Sphere. Lucius has tortured me to the brink of death for far less than this. I shudder to think what I will have to go through. Will I even survive? What if he doesn't even take me to his office—what if he takes me directly to Voldemort himself? These new doubts send shivers down my spine. This plan has so many holes, so many ways for it to go wrong, that it's really nothing short of madness. And yet it's all we can do. I can't back down now, no matter how strong my apprehension is. I deserve whatever I get, anyway.

Still, my worries present a notable thought which we have both somehow overlooked in our exhaustion: "What if he takes me right to Voldemort?"

Harry turns to look at me, brow furrowed in thought. "We have to make sure you get into the office," he says slowly. "It would be too easy for him to drag you off somewhere else if you just walk in the doors and announce your arrival. We need to rework this." He thinks for a few minutes, then says, "You don't know the password to Lucius's office, do you?"

"No. If I did, I daresay this would all be quite a bit easier."

"Everyone else in the castle has less authority than Lucius, right? He holds the highest position?" Harry questions.

"Yes, he's in charge, except on the rare occassions when Voldemort is in the castle. Why? What are you planning?" I ask.

"Well, if you were captured by someone _other_ than Lucius, then that person would take you right up to his office, I'd assume? They'd defer to their superior." I nod. "Okay. Then Lucius would be likely to keep you in there for at least a little while if someone brought you right to him. So we need someone else to catch you and deliver you to him. One of the professors, not a student."

"Snape," I pipe up instantly.

Harry scowls, as though the name puts a bad taste in his mouth. "_Snape! _ The bloody traitor! I always knew Dumbledore was wrong in trusting him. Should have known he'd still be there." He goes on to call Snape a variety of colorful names. "So why exactly do you want him to catch you?"

"Hard as it may be for you to believe, Snape's the kindest person in that school. No, don't give me that look, Harry, I'm serious. All the other professors are . . . horribly cruel. It's not even right to call them professors—they're just Death Eaters. They use the Cruciatus Curse on you if you get an answer wrong. They've used it on me before because I got too many correct. Detentions are … well, suffice it to say that detentions at Puerclades consist of things even Filch would have found to be awful. Snape's never hurt any of us. He's been surprisingly nice to me. Not to say he's ever been supportive, but he never forces me to answer questions, or picks on me in class like he used to. He's not given me one detention since this all began. And certain times when I've been unable to complete the assigned work for . . . various reasons, he's never marked me down. He's the only person who I can practically guarantee _won't_ try to hurt me."

Harry grimaces in sympathy and lays a hand on my arm. I shrug him off and he retracts it. I swear that for a moment I see something that looks almost like hurt in his eyes, but he breaks eye contact a moment later and continues on the conversation as though none of this has taken place. "Okay, then he's our best bet. Snape it is."

"How do we get all the way down to the dungeons without being seen?"

"The same we're getting in without being seen—the Invisibility Cloak. We'll both use it to get down there, then you'll go out and I'll stay hidden." Harry bites his lip. "We'll need to work up an excuse as to why you'd present yourself to them, though. They'll anticipate a trap if you just walk in without an explanation."

"I doubt it," I argue. "Ever since that Howler you sent me—which exploded in front of everyone—they all know that you hate me. They'll just suspect what they always have—that I tried to return and was shunned, so I've come back to the only people who'll keep me. The only one who'll doubt that is Voldemort himself, and if luck is with us, we won't have to meet up with him."

Harry's expression is pained. "Hermione, I'm sorry—"

"Don't be," I cut him off, knowing that he is referring to the Howler. "I don't want your apologies. I don't deserve them." I turn away, clearly indicating that this particular strain of conversation has ended. "So that's the plan, then."

"That's the plan," Harry echoes, a look of apology still on his face.

It's another ten minutes before Sirius returns, holding a folded, silvery bundle in his right hand. Harry takes the cloak from him and nods, letting it run over his fingers, looking almost like liquid as it flows over his hands. Looking up at Sirius, he says, "Thanks. For everything."

Sirius puts a hand on Harry's shoulder in a fatherly way. The affectionate moment ends quickly as he looks to me. I force myself to find the courage to meet his eyes and not look away. Sirius walks closer. My courage disappears at his close proximity, and I turn my attention to my shoes.

"Harry trusts you, Hermione," he says quietly. "I personally don't understand why he trusts you so much, but he does. I'll go along with his decision. I really hope he's made the right one. He could use someone like you—or someone like he thinks you are, depending on whether this is all still an act. He lost a big part of himself the day you turned traitor. He's never been the same. I'd really like to see that part of my godson restored. All I can do is beg you not to betray him again." Once he's finished saying this, he raises his voice so that Harry can hear as well. "Harry, you know the way to the emergency safe house? You know where it is and what spells it takes to get in?"

"Yeah."

"Go there once you're done at Puerclades. It'll keep you safe for the time being." Sirius looks at me pointedly as he adds, "Go there no matter what happens."

I understand what he means by this—he is telling Harry to go to this safe house, with me if I prove myself loyal, or alone if I ultimately end up a traitor. His distrust is like a painful stake through my heart, but at least I can understand it. I know why he doesn't trust me and I expect it—I almost welcome it. Harry's behavior, while so much kinder, is so much harder to assess, and therefore harder to cope with.

Sirius continues. "I would like to help you, as would Dumbledore. Unfortunately, we all agree that it's too risky. We can't risk the lives of our entire resistance on this battle when it has no real point in the overall war. I wanted to come to help you myself, but Dumbledore forbid me. But if you need me . . . if you want me . . . I'll be there, Dumbledore's orders be damned."

Harry smiles gratefully but shakes his head. "No worries. I understand where you're coming from. If things were reversed, I'd make the same decision. I wouldn't let you help if you wanted to—and I don't want you to defy Dumbledore my sake. You've helped enough. We'll contact you once it's done." I notice his emphasis on the word '_we'_.

"Best of luck," says Sirius, embracing Harry tightly. I can see the deep worry written in his features. He still considers himself responsible for Harry and still blames himself for Lily and James's deaths. He is obviously worried that he will soon have another death on his conscience.

And now we're on our own, Sirius departing without another word or warning. Harry fingers the cloak again, staring at it with an unreadable expression. Finally, he sighs and glances up at me. "I guess it's time, then," he says without expression.

"I suppose," I respond softly.

"So what's the best time to go in?" he asks.

"After classes have ended, but before dinner if we hope to catch Snape alone in his office. The Death Eaters all have meetings after dinner, so we couldn't catch him later."

"Then we'd best start out now."

The walk is long and silent. The only sound comes from the crunching of the snow beneath our feet and our increasingly ragged breaths. The air is bitterly cold, so harsh that it turns our throats raw and sensitive within minutes, making every breath a painful venture. Our silence is heavy and tense. Both of us are dealing with our own demons about this plan, fear keeping us from putting our worries into words. After a while, my throat stops working properly and I can hardly swallow. My fear has far surpassed terror, and ventured into an unnamed level of fright. I'm shaking, and not entirely from the cold. The more I try to keep my mind on the moment when that Sphere will break into a million shards of glass, the harder it seems.

It's a long and biting trek from that cave to the edge of the Forbidden Forest around Puerclades, but for me, it's over far too soon. In what seems like seconds after we set off, we are kneeling in the snowy bushes and looking out at the entrance of a place that built my life at one time, and ruined it at another.

Harry speaks for the first time in over an hour. "What time do classes let out?"

"Around four in the afternoon. Then the students have two hours before dinner for homework."

"What's the day today?" he asks, considering this for the first time. "Is it a weekend or a weekday?"

I think hard. So much has happened recently that I've lost track of time. I never really paid much attention while I was trapped in Puerclades anyway. I've learned that the more attention I pay to the time, the harder it is to continue on each day. "I think it's Sunday," I whisper. "I'm not certain, though."

"We're going with that, then, because my calculations say it's Sunday as well," says Harry, nodding. "We might as well check, because if it's a weekend, we don't have to wait. If we're wrong, we'll just slip back out. It can't hurt, can it?"

"Yes, it can," I say grimly. "But I suppose it's all we can do."

Harry unfolds the Invisibility Cloak with a few graceful shakes, sending it gliding and shimmering through the frigid air, its color complementing the ivory snow. Harry pauses me, giving me a look that clearly lets me know this is the last chance to back out. Knowing that he's only sending this message for my benefit, I step forward and allow him to throw the cloak snugly about our shoulders. As Harry's grown quite tall, he has to duck down to make sure the cloak covers us entirely.

It's much warmer under the silky material. Our breath, which has been freezing and turning to mist, is now trapped in the cloak with us, adding extra warmth. Despite this, I'm shivering more fiercely than ever, and I can feel that Harry is experiencing a few tremors of his own, but I say nothing. For a moment, we both seem content to stand here in silence, staring up at the castle with trepidation. Finally, Harry sighs and takes a step forward. I follow and try to keep my steps even with his as we make our way through the snow and up to the castle. If either of us falls too far behind while under the cloak, it'll come off entirely, which is not something we want while standing out in the middle of an open, snowy courtyard.

I look behind me just before we reach the treeline. "Stop," I hiss to Harry, and he instantly complies.

"What is it?" he asks, looking around us warily as though someone is standing there listening.

"Our footprints," I mutter. "Don't you think that footprints appearing in the snow with no one to make them must look a little weird for anyone that happens to be peering out of their windows right now?"

Harry winces. "Yeah, I didn't think of that. . . . Okay, you face forward and take steps when I tell you to. I'll face backwards and clear the footprints as I go with my wand. We'll have to go slow so as to keep the Invisibility Cloak over new footprints, because seeing a footprint appear mysteriously in the snow, then vanish a moment later must look even weirder."

Our progress up to the castle is quite tedious. I'm lucky to get as far as ten feet in sixty seconds. One would think that I would be relieved at the slow pace—that I would be grateful for every instant I have before actually reaching the castle. In all honesty, I wish we could just get there and put the plan into motion. Sitting here with my heart thudding painfully and my body shivering in terror is not in any way ideal. My stomach is twisting in painful knots that, at different intervals, make me switch between feeling near tears and close to throwing up. I'd rather just get it over with than stand here and put up with the nerves for any longer.

Even considering these musings of mine, when we finally do reach the doors of the castle, I can't say I feel relieved, or at all different from the way I've felt since we left the comfort of the cave. I pause on the top of the steps, allowing Harry to vanish our most recent footsteps. Finally, he turns to me and raises an eyebrow. It's clear that he's attempting to look prepared and determined, but I can read the fear in him.

"Ready, then?" he asks.

"Harry, I'm beginning to get impatient with your constant desire to turn me away from this," I say in a slightly irritated tone.

"I just don't want to see you hurt. I still … I still care about you." I read in his expression that saying these words is a trial for him. He's uncertain of how I'll take it, and isn't even fully sure he means them. But I can also see that he does not regret them.

"I don't know why you would," I reply softly. He opens his mouth to retort, but I've tired of the conversation. I push open the doors to the Entrance Hall and he's forced to fall silent.

My heart pounds as I take the risk of opening the doors wide enough to step through. What if someone is in here and they see the door mysteriously open by itself? What was I thinking, opening the door without being sure the Entrance Hall is empty?

Unfortunately, my suspicions that someone might be within are correct. Once Harry and I have stepped inside and the door is gliding silently shut behind us, we notice two fifth year boys standing some distance away in a dark corner. They're watching the door through narrowed eyes. For a moment, all is still, including Harry and I. Then the boys exchange a glance and pull out their wands, beginning to advance toward the doors uncertainly.

I feel Harry raise his wand next to me and mutter, "_Stupefy_!" twice, aiming once at each boy. The spell connects, and they don't even have time to wonder what hit them before they fold limply into a heap on the floor.

I expect some sort of a reprimand from Harry for being stupid enough to open the door, but it doesn't come. Instead, he begins to walk silently toward the fallen boys, and I have no choice but to follow in an effort to keep the cloak over us both. He looks down at them and raises his wand again, aiming a couple of dueling hexes at each of them. The final product is the taller boy sporting an assortment of nasty looking, acid green pustules across every bit of visible skin, and a shock of hair in patches of different colors; and the shorter boy, whom I vaguely recognize as being one of the professors' sons, having a great deal of white hair coming from his nostrils and teeth large enough to rival a beaver's. I raise an eyebrow at Harry, questioning why he bothered doing this.

Harry shrugs, a small sort of smile playing on his lips. "Two reasons. One—if anyone finds them, it'll just look like they were in a duel. No one will suspect anything odd. And two . . . well, I couldn't resist hexing the future Death Eaters of the world."

He knelt down and grabbed the wand out of the limp hand of the boy with the green pustules, handing it to me. "Here. So we're both armed."

I nod shortly and clench the wand tightly in my fist, thankful for it. It's a terribly vulnerable feeling to be wandless.

We set out again, with a closer eye toward caution. We pass many students talking in the halls, which confirms our suspicions that this is indeed a weekend, for had it not been, all of them would have been in class at this time. We have a couple of close run-ins—namely, almost running into a group of girls when I stumbled over the bottom of the cloak; and almost revealing ourselves when Harry attempted to dive at Draco Malfoy as we passed him—but we reach the corridor to Snape's dungeon without too much interference.

After what seems like far too short a time, we are standing in front of Snape's classroom. I stare at it with apprehension, the full caliber of the insanity of this plan hitting me. Am I really just going to walk in? What will I say? What will Snape do? Can I really do this?

Harry seems to sense my doubts and grabs my hand. I look at him, not bothering to conceal my fear. "This is madness," I whisper, managing a small, weak laugh.

"That's an understatement," he replies in an equally soft voice. "Look, you said it yourself that Snape won't hurt you. I'm going to be standing just out here in the shadows. I'll be with you the whole way. You won't be able to see me, but never doubt that I'm there. I won't leave you."

"What happens if you don't manage to slip up to Lucius's office with me? What if you miss your chance and I'm alone and don't even know it until I make my move?" I ask, a sudden desperation to turn back grabbing me.

He squeezes my hand before releasing it. "That won't happen. Even if I miss the chance the first time, I'll hear the password. I can open it again and slip up. But that won't happen. Now go on. I won't come inside because I don't want to risk being seen, but I'll be right out here. Okay?"

I nod, my throat clenched too tightly to say a word. I take several deep breaths before ducking out from under the cloak.

I feel so vulnerable without the cloak to protect me. Being out in the open is a terrifying feeling, and all I want is to conceal myself once more. Not being able to see Harry doesn't help. I know he's there, but that doesn't stop the feeling of abandonment that strangles me.

Harry's voice whispers encouragingly, "You can do it, Hermione."

If this were a fairy tale and I was the heroine, Harry's words would have been enough to fill me with a sudden feeling of certainty and confidence, and I would have strode through the doors to confront Snape proudly, my head held high. But this is not a fairy tale. Harry's words do nothing to stop the pounding of my heart and the terrified tremors racing through me. It helps me a little to know he's still with me, but the extent to which his words help pretty much ends there. Nevertheless, I force my shaking hand to reach for the doorknob and twist it.

The hinges of the door creak loudly, and the sound echoes imposingly. The room is empty, and there's no sign of Professor Snape or anyone else. I force myself to take one more step, then another, and another, toward the desk beyond which lies the Potions Master's office. I make no effort to hurry, but even so, it doesn't take long until I can see through the window in his office door. Sure enough, Severus Snape sits at his desk, scribbling fiercely on a piece of parchment, the look on his face annoyed enough for me to guess that he's grading a truly horrendous student paper. The door is open and he's facing me, but he's focused on the paper and doesn't seem aware that I'm here.

Uncertainty grips me. Oh, what do I do? Possibilities of how to start off the conversation run through my mind, each as unlikely and ridiculous as the next. "_Hello_, _Professor_, _how're_ _things_? _Anything_ _new_ _since_ _I've_ _been_ _gone_?" and "_Oh_, _is_ _that_ _a test_ _I_ _missed_? _Can_ _I_ _take_ _it_ _once_ _Malfoy_ _is_ _done_ _torturing_ _me_ _for_ _running_ _off_?" Under other circumstances, such musings might have struck me as funny, but now they only serve to frighten me more.

In the end, Snape saves me the trouble of deciding on anything. Finally finishing his writing, he looks up while he dips his quill in a bottle of ink, and his eyes fall on me. I breathe in sharply as he stares at me in what is apparent disbelief for several moments. His stupor does not last nearly long enough for my tastes, and he stands up with a grimace, striding around his desk and out the door. There is another desk in the main portion of the classroom, facing out over the dungeon, and he comes to stand on the other side of this one. He slams his palms down on the wooden surface and leans forward, glaring at me. "What do you think you're doing?" he demands angrily.

My mouth opens and closes several times before I manage to utter anything vaguely resembling words. "I—I—I don't understand what you mean, Professor." My voice is choked and filled with shock. I hadn't expected this sort of a reaction—but then, I'm not too sure what I _did_ expect.

"I would assume my meaning is perfectly clear, Miss Granger. What are you doing back here, you foolish girl?" he hisses.

I'm quite surprised, and begin rambling a response without much thought. "I went back . . . to Harry and Ron, and they turned me away, like I guess I should have known they would, so I . . . I came back. What did you expect me to do?"

Snape let out a growl, his cold black eyes flashing. "Miss Granger, I'm sorry to say that I've overestimated your intelligence these past years by a great margin. They turned you away—_that_ _does_ _not_ _matter_! Surely there is _someplace_ out there where you could have stayed hidden? You finally get a chance to escape this place, and you _return_ to it?" His voice is full of incredulous sarcasm.

"I didn't know where to go," I lie. "I just . . . I just thought . . . I don't know . . ." I trail off, feeling completely lost.

He sighs in exasperation, and meets my gaze with a penetrating one of his own. "Tell me, Miss Granger, do you enjoy being the Death Eaters' punching bag? Or do you have some deep, underlying interest in the Dark Arts? Because I'd have thought that you'd have the sense to get as far away from this wretched place as you can while you had the chance!"

"Of course I don't like what they do to me!" I snap furiously. Who does he think he is? "And I'll die before I'm loyal to the Dark side!"

"Then answer my question—what has brought you back?"

I feel like kicking myself. I've just turned a perfectly good excuse. I lied and claimed that I have become interested in the Dark Arts—it isn't as though I care about Snape's opinion. The whole idea is to get him to take me to Lucius, and apparently he needs an excuse before he'll do that. Arguing in my own defense isn't helping. I've backed myself into a corner, and now I'll have to find a lie of my own—a lie more substantial than the one about Harry turning me away. In the end, though, Snape's penetrating glare gets the better of me, and my mind remains blank.

"I . . ." I say, trailing off with a shrug of uncertainty.

He doesn't say anything, but nor does he stop boring his eyes into me. I focus my gaze on the stone floor instead, unnerved but desperate not to show signs of weakness.

"Of course," he whispers, sounding as though an idea is dawning on him. I look up in confusion and he asks me harshly, "How did you get in without anyone seeing you? The whole school's been on alert since you took off, warned to capture you at any given opportunity. You could not possibly have made it down here without someone grabbing you."

_Oh_, _Merlin_, _he_ _knows_! I realize desperately. I'd been a fool to assume we could trick him! He is staring at me expectantly, and I mutter lamely in a futile effort to delay the inevitable, "I was . . . lucky . . . I guess . . ."

"Lucky. Of course," he murmurs silkily. He knows, I can see it in his eyes. I can feel my fear rising, and before I can decide on a more sensible course of action, I turn, intending to run for the door and hoping that Harry and I can make it back out before we're trapped.

Snape's reflexes are simply too fast. He lunges across the desk and snags my arm in a bruising, vice-like grip. I cry out in horror and pull the wand Harry gave me from the pocket in my robes, aiming it at him. Once again, he is faster. He knocks the wand from my hand and it flies through the air, landing on the ground some ten feet away. Snape grabs my other arm and I begin to struggle violently. _It's_ _over_, I realize with a sense of dreadful defeat. _It's_ _really_ _over_. I just hope that Harry has the sense to get out without me.

"Miss Granger, calm yourself!" Snape orders harshly. "I am not going to hurt you! I am simply attempting to keep you from running out the door or hexing me—I will release you once it seems likely that you will not do either!"

"Oh, certainly, I believe you!" I snap, attempting to punch him in the jaw when he wasn't expecting me to be aiming my hands in that direction. I miss.

When he speaks again, his voice is choppy with the effort of restraining me, but it's uncharacteristically sincere and calm. "I ask you—since Hogwarts was turned into Puerclades, have I ever harmed you?"

I unconsciously begin to stop my struggles, though I don't stop tugging at my arms every now and then. His tone and his words reach me. True, as I told Harry, he's never hurt me or harassed me since everything changed. My fear has not subsided, but I'm beginning to listen to him, and truth be told, struggling was doing me very little good anyway.

"Good girl," he mutters as I cease my attempts to escape. "If you make a run for the door, I will stop you, but you may retrieve your wand." True to his word, he releases me.

I don't move for ten whole seconds, staring at him in shock. Despite the fact that I'd stopped struggling, I hadn't expected him to let me go. I can feel a dull, throbbing ache where his hands had been wrapped so tightly around my arms, and I know that it's only a matter of time until the skin there bruises.

"Well, are you going to get it or will we stand here all night?" Snape demands with a scowl.

I nod slowly, stepping away from the desk and walking over to where the wand landed. I never take my eyes off him, fearing he might attack me from behind, though I can see no logic in such action. Once my hand closes around the handle of the wand, I leap to my feet, pointing it straight at him. He makes no move to pull out his own. I realize for the first time that he didn't once bother pulling out his wand—he'd let me struggle when there were dozens of curses that could easily have stopped me.

He sighs in exasperation. "Lower the wand, or I will be forced to confiscate it from you, which I'd rather not do."

"Why should I?" I ask daringly, not yet willing to put away my best means of self-defense.

He rolls his eyes skyward as I remember seeing him do so many times in the past when Neville turned a potion so unbelievably wrong that it was hardly conceivable. However, when he speaks, he keeps his voice even and low, without its usual growl. "I didn't tell you to put it away, Miss Granger, just to lower it. My wand is in my office. If you'd like to verify that, summon it to you and hold it. I already told you that I don't intend to hurt you."

While summoning Snape's wand is most likely the sensible thing to do, for some reason, I refrain. I'm confused. A minute ago I'd been completely convinced that he was going to torture me or expose my plan to Lucius, or both. Now I don't know what's going on. I lower my wand slowly to my side and step closer to the desk. I stay just out of his reach, watching him in wary curiosity.

Snape gazes at me with an unreadable expression. "I don't suppose it's necessary to ask you to confirm my suspicions after that episode, but for the sake of being thorough, I'll make sure that I'm completely correct. You snuck in under Potter's Invisibility Cloak? And I suppose Potter and Weasley are lurking around here somewhere as well, still hidden? Come for some daring plan, I anticipate?"

I don't bother to deny it—to do so would be pointless, and would gain me a worse punishment, depending on what he intends to do with this information. He'd still believe what he does, and I'd look like a fool. But even so, I don't mention that only Harry and I are present, and that Ron is probably off somewhere wishing me dead. "How did you know?" I ask softly.

"Do not take me for a fool. It may have taken me a moment, but it was the only thing that made any sense. Why else would you have returned? Why else would you have presented yourself to me without even a decent excuse as to why you are here? How else could you not have been seen and dragged away long before you reached this classroom?" Snape asks rhetorically. His logic is unbeatable. Why didn't Harry and I anticipate this? It should have been obvious that Snape would figure it out.

"What are you going to do to me?" I whisper.

"I'm shocked that our brightest pupil could possibly be so dense. How many times must I repeat the fact that I do not intend to hurt you?" he says waspishly.

"Then what _are_ you going to do?" I press. "Tell Malfoy about all of this?"

He studies me intently. "No, Miss Granger. I will not tell Malfoy a thing."

I frown for a moment, about to demand why, when I finally catch the thought that's been eluding me, and the last puzzle piece snaps into place. I blink, feeling startled that I had not considered it before. "You're still with Dumbledore, aren't you?"

"Bravo, she gets it at long last," he says scathingly. "Indeed, I am. I've not had much chance to speak with him in the last two years, with the exception of a couple of brief informational exchanges, but I remain loyal to him. I've known that you were not responsible for this, as Dumbledore thought you to be, but I dared not pass along that information. To do so would have been asking for death. I was only able to pass small, seemingly useless bits of information to him, because I'm monitored closely.

"I don't intend to hand you over to Lucius Malfoy, but I'm afraid I can't help you. I have a cover to maintain. Therefore, I will give you one chance to go out, find Potter, slip back under his cloak, and then you can abort your little mission and leave. No one will ever know that any of this happened here today."

For a moment, I consider agreeing and thanking him, consider running back out to the corridor and telling Harry we can't do this. But this urge is small and fleeting, and using some reserve of courage that I didn't even know I possessed, I shake my head. "I can't do that, Professor."

"Gryffindor courage may be useful in some situations, but you are misusing it in this one," says Snape in disgust. "If you decide to stay, I will have no choice but to take you to Lucius. I must maintain my cover. I won't tell him what we've spoken of, but I'll have to follow his orders and deliver you to him. If he finds out you were here and I didn't bring you, Dumbledore's only spy within this school will be compromised, and I am not willing to risk that for your foolish attempt at heroism. Last chance, girl—get out and save your life."

For a moment, I consider telling him that the whole point of this was to get him to take me to Lucius in the first place, but decide against it within a millisecond. The less he knows, the better. I shake my head again. "It's too late for second thoughts, sir. I'm staying. You do what you have to—I understand. But I'm not leaving."

Snape is clearly disgusted with me. Without a word, he turns and strides into his office, grabbing his wand and returning to me. He nods to the door. "Get going then, Granger."

I turn and begin to walk back to the door. This entire confrontation has been so much different than I'd imagined. The pure madness has kept me from contemplating what still lies ahead, but now, as our footsteps echo throughout the dead air of the dungeon, my throat is beginning to constrict again. I'm going to face Lucius now, but I haven't a shred of confidence that this plan is going to work. Up until this point, we've been finding loose ends lying everywhere, and it's a miracle we've made it this far. Luck can only carry us so much further.

Once we're out in the corridor, Snape stops, and I turn to look at him. "Last chance," he mutters in a low tone. "Once we're seen by even one person, you can't change your decision."

"I don't want to change it," I say resolutely, though my voice quavers as I speak.

Snape points to the end of the corridor, indicating that I should start walking again. I hear him sigh softly behind me once I've begun moving, and I turn around just in time to see him casting a furtive glance around. I suspect that he's looking for Harry.

We—or should I say _I_—get many startled glances and jeers as we walk through the upper corridors. I struggle to keep my eyes lowered and look passive and meek, which I must admit is not hard. Fear is racing through me at a speed faster than light. I'm praying silently that Harry is behind me, keeping up. I want nothing more than to look back and see, but to do so would be foolish. It would give the impression that I'm looking for something should anyone be watching me too closely, and I won't see him even if he is there. In the end, though it's a struggle, I manage to keep my attention focused forward the entire time.

The corridor leading to the Headmaster's office is deserted. Snape and I stop in front of the gargoyle, neither of us saying a word. As Snape moves forward, aiming his wand, I'm sure that I hear a soft footfall somewhere behind me. This belief is reinforced when Snape spins around quickly, apparently having heard it, too. No one is there—the corridor is still apparently empty. I feel relief wash over me in that instant, and I'm sure some of it shows on my face. Harry is indeed still behind me, lurking under his Invisibility Cloak. Snape is looking at me, and I'm sure he knows that Harry is there, but he turns back to the gargoyle and raises his wand without a word.

He does a series of complex wand movements, accompanied by a long password that is interrupted by more wand movements. Lucius's password is a far cry from the simple sweets that Dumbledore used. Sometime during this, when Snape's attention is focused on the process of gaining entrance, I feel a hand on my shoulder. My head snaps to one side, and I see only air, but the hand is still resting on my arm. I give the apparently empty space next to me the smallest of smiles. I dare not speak to Harry, though the temptation is great. I'd rather Snape doesn't have confirmation that he's here, and we're far too close to the headmaster's office to assume we're not being overheard.

The gargoyle slides back, revealing the spiral staircase heading up to the headmaster's office. Never before has that fleet of steps looked more imposing. I hear soft motions next to me and Harry's hand leaves my shoulder. The footsteps continue, and I assume he's moving into a position to follow me closely. I shuffle about in an effort to hide the small sounds he's making.

Snape looks at me. "I'll need the wand you're carrying. Lucius will expect me to have taken it from you. I must." He holds out his hand. With a great amount of regret, I give up my only weapon. Things just became harder. Now Harry's going to have to find a suitable time to pass me his wand without his presence being realized, or without his wand ending up in Lucius's possession as well.

Snape nods and tucks the wand away in his robes, gesturing up the stairs. I begin to move forward, and when my foot hits the first stair, I feel sure that I hear him whisper, "I'm sorry, Miss Granger."

Blood is pounding in my ears, giving me quite the splitting headache. My stomach is doing advanced gymnastics inside my belly, doing nothing to tame my queasiness. The walk up that staircase is the longest and most painful trek I've ever made. When at long last I come to a halt before the wooden door leading into the office, my hands are shaking, and it's all I can do not to allow the rest of my body to break out in violent tremors.

Snape moves past me to knock on the door, and when his back is turned, I feel Harry's hand come into contact with my shoulder again. His presence, while helpful and relieving, isn't enough to calm my terror.

"Lucius! I've with me someone you'd be interested in seeing," calls Snape through the closed door.

"Enter," says the cold voice of Lucius Malfoy. Snape turns back to look at me. For the first time in the seven years I've known the man, I see something resembling pity in his eyes. Not giving me long to consider it, he turns and opens the door, stepping in before me.

I can't see Lucius through the small opening between the door and the wall, but I can still hear him. "So who is it you've brought, Severus? I don't have time to wait around."

"Girl!" Snape calls. "Get in here!"

I raise my head and step into the office with as much dignity as I can muster. Harry's hand doesn't leave my shoulder once, which is a comfort. However, he removes it the moment we're both inside, moving away, presumably, to a safer area where there is less risk of someone running into him unintentionally.

Lucius's cold gray eyes narrow at the sight of me and I narrow my own back at him. "Well, well, well, what an unexpected surprise," he murmurs. "So they turned you away, did they? How unlikely." His voice is full of furious sarcasm.

I say nothing. My throat isn't working well enough to allow me to force any words out.

"Severus, leave us," says Lucius without turning his eyes away from me.

"Of course," Snape says with a slight inclination of his head before ducking back out the door and closing it softly behind him.

Lucius walks slowly around his desk, his eyes sweeping me up and down, not saying a word. I fight to keep my expression proud and undaunted, but it's becoming more difficult by the second. The one thing that keeps me from full blown panic is the knowledge that Harry is here. Out of sight, perhaps, but here nevertheless.

He doesn't stop until he is so close that I can feel his breath on my face. I notice for the first time the wand he holds in his hand, which he is now pointing at me. Before I can react or step away, he hisses in a voice barely more than a whisper, "_Crucio_."

Some people might think that being subjected to the Cruciatus Curse many times would lead you to become used to it, to some degree. I can tell you that this is not the case. The pain is never any easier to handle, and you can never, with any amount of practice, manage to keep a right state of mind when you are put under it. You can learn not to scream, not to cry, not to completely break down, but it never becomes easier.

Lucius doesn't let up for what seems like forever. I find myself on the floor when he does, with no clear memory of having gotten there. I don't make a motion to get up. Why bother? He'll most likely just knock me down again, and my knees are far too weak to be stable. I've managed to hold back tears, and I'd rather not show any weakness, but I simply can't find the strength to pull myself to my feet. He's spinning his wand in his fingers with a thoughtful expression, and I have a horrible feeling that he's contemplating what horror he will subject me to next.

I force myself to keep my mind focused. The only way out of this is to do what we came here to do. The first task I must complete is getting him to admit that the Sphere was created unfairly, and that I never agreed to betray my friends. This is a necessary step in proving to Harry that I'm innocent.

"So tell me, Mudblood," he says softly. His arrogant eyes are cool enough to have been carved from pure ice. "Who was it that turned you away in the end? One of the Weasleys? I'm sure they hate you for giving us the opportunity to destroy their family. Or perhaps Dumbledore? I don't suppose he's quite so open to second chances anymore. Or was it even your precious Potter? I'm surprised he bothered saving you. Waste of time, wasn't it? To save you and then turn you back to me? Do tell me what the point of that whole ordeal was?"

I don't respond. He's baiting me, trying to trigger me into yelling at him or breaking down. _Eye_ _on_ _the_ _prize_, _Hermione_, I say firmly to myself. _You've got your lead-in to the desired conversation. Use it!_

"It's all that bloody Sphere," I say, my voice shaking. "It ruined my whole life."

Lucius smirks. "It was your own foolishness that led you to be trapped in the deal. Only a Gryffindor would be idiot enough to think that they could successfully make a deal with the Dark Lord."

I'm not sure if that's enough for Harry. Lucius's words are vague, and don't say all too clearly what I want them to. I press further, trying to get Lucius to say in a more obvious manner that Voldemort had tricked me into it.

"It didn't make sense," I whisper, trying to sound delirious. "I didn't think I'd agreed to anything. I didn't think … how did he do it?"

Lucius's eyes flash coldly. "You are far too curious for your own good," he hisses, pulling me up by my arms, which are already sore from where Snape had grabbed them earlier. I cry out. Lifting me off my feet, he throws me unceremoniously into the chair on the other side of his desk. My head snaps back so fast that my neck is cricked painfully.

When I dare look up at him again, he's watching me through half-closed eyes. "Inquiring in things that are not your business is a dangerous thing, Mudblood. You must remember that curiousity killed the cat." He grabs my face in one hand and makes me look him in the eyes, clearly searching me, wondering if there is something more behind my questions than simple rambling. At last he pushes me away, apparently satisfied that I'm up to nothing. "It's not as though it was hard, I'm sure," he finishes. "Foolish little girls are easy to trick."

I'm still not sure if that will be a satisfactory amount of information for Harry, but I dare not press it farther. To do so would be asking for far worse than I've already received. I am trembling fiercely. I know that I now must focus my attention on getting the Sphere. I can see it from where I sit, perched in its glass container on the bookshelf across the room. Sitting on a silver staff in the center of the hollow glass cube, it glimmers in the dim light. Most people would consider the way it catches the light to be mesmerizing. I see it as menacing.

Lucius is twirling his wand again. He has not made a motion to move out from in front of my chair. The Sphere is on the other side of the room. I haven't a hope of getting to it if he doesn't move.

Without warning, Lucius's hand darts out and catches me around the neck. His fingers tighten to the point where I cannot breathe.

"I've tired of this conversation," he says in an almost bored tone. "I hope you enjoyed your moments with your old friends, because the vacation's over. And you're about to realize that it's not a good idea to cross me."

I claw desperately at him with my hands, but it's futile. By this point, I can feel my eyes rolling back into my head. My lungs are burning desperately for air, and just as I'm beginning to think that I will not survive, he releases me. I slump down into the chair, coughing and gasping for breath, my vision distorted and fuzzy. With each inhalation, my lungs sting sharply. As I breathe, though, the stinging begins to subside. That's more than I can say for my head, which is throbbing something awful.

"You didn't expect me to kill you that soon, did you?" he taunts. "No, I have much more in store for you. You'll soon be seeing death as a luxury—one you won't have the pleasure of experiencing." He aims his wand at me and I close my eyes, preparing to feel the torturous pain of the Cruciatus Curse again.

This time I can't hold back my scream, and I'm sure that I'm going to pass out from the pain when he lifts the curse once more, laughing softly.

"How does that feel, Mudblood? Does it feel better or worse than the rejection of your friends? Do you think they'd enjoy watching you suffer right now? Do you think they'd want to help me?"

Even knowing that Harry is standing in this very room, risking his life to help me, Lucius's words cut me deeply, and against my will, a tear falls from my eye.

"Oh, don't cry yet!" Lucius cackles. "We've only begun." He aims his wand again and I brace myself for the pain.

It doesn't come. Instead, an ear-shattering alarm splits the air like a banshee's shriek. The crystal around the Sphere of Truth is suddenly pulsating with red light, and I realize that the alarm must have been set off.

Lucius spins to look toward the glass case, and seeing my opportunity, I force my pain-numbed limbs to leap upward and pounce onto his back. Lucius, not expecting this, topples forward. However, it's a lost battle from the start. I'm weak from the lasting effects of the Cruciatus Curse and a lack of air, and he's as strong as ever, also armed with a wand. He has me pinned in ten seconds, and when I try to struggle, his fist lashes out, crushing my nose. A moment later, I can feel my hot blood running down my face. The pain is awful—I doubt my nose is broken, but it certainly feels like it. Through it all, the alarm still howls.

And then, just as quickly as this entire thing began, Lucius's weight is no longer atop me. I hear his angry cry of, "POTTER!" and I open my eyes. Harry, apparently having abandoned the Invisibility Cloak, is now wrestling with him fiercely. I realize that Harry must have touched the glass in an effort to set off the alarm, as I told him that contact with it would. He's giving me the chance to get to it.

"Hermione!" Harry yells. Although it takes every last bit of my strength and then some, I push myself to my feet and look to him. The moment he sees he has my attention, his wand spirals toward me through the air. "Get it!"

The wand soars past me and lands on the ground some distance away. I stagger over and grab it, making a run for the Sphere. Behind me, Lucius is making every effort to get past Harry, but Harry has somehow managed to relieve him of his wand, making it quite a bit harder on the older man. However, it is obvious that Harry is still losing. Lucius is hitting at him furiously, and even as I watch, the Death Eater's fist connects with Harry's eye. I know he won't be able to hold his own for much longer.

I grab the glass and am instantly filled with pain. I gasp and release it, only then remembering that Lucius has imbued it with the Cruciatus curse. This time prepared, I force myself to take the it—I can't waste time looking for a counter-spell. The pain is awful, and it's all I can do to keep myself from passing out, weakened as I am from my first two rounds with this Unforgiveable Curse and my own vain struggles. My pain resistance is worn down and I can hardly take it. Despite this, all seems to be going well until I realize that I cannot pull the glass container from the surface it's sitting on. It's as though it has adhered to the wood. I let go of it again, panting for breath and leaning on the shelf in an effort to remain standing. I puzzle quickly over which spell is being used to bind the glass to the wood.

"Hermione, hurry!" Harry is calling with a definite note of panic.

All the sound is beginning to take its toll on me—the shrieking alarm, Harry's calls to speed up, Lucius's yelled threats. It's increasing the pain in my skull to a near unbearable level, making it almost impossible to think coherently. I know that I have to figure out which binding charm has been used, then find the counter-spell, but I just can't make my mind work . . .

Somehow, I manage with great difficulty to focus on the task at hand. Is a Permanent Sticking Charm being used? No, that wouldn't make sense—then Lucius wouldn't be able to remove it either. So then which, out of a spectrum of different levels and intensities of bonding charms, is being used?

I vaguely remember an extra credit assignment I was working on in fifth year for Charms class, about binding charms. How was it that you could tell a higher power charm from one of a lower power? I have to know, for each has a separate counter-spell. I close my eyes in an attempt to block out my surroundings and remember. After several seconds of rifling through my memory, it comes to me—I must run my finger along the place where the two bound objects meet. If I feel a surge of magic upon doing this, the charm is of a higher intensity.

My eyes snap open and I quickly run the tip of my finger along the very bottom of the glass where it meets the wooden shelf. I immediately receive the customary shock of pain from the glass, but I force myself on anyway. I feel an odd tingling sensation that has never before accompanied the pain from touching the glass. It has to be the aftereffects of a magical surge.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I raise Harry's wand, praying that I am right. "_Exonoro_!" I say firmly. I watch as a small, barely noticeable blue light runs along the bottom of the glass, finally fading once it has touched every place where the glass is bound.

Sighing in relief, I reach out and pull the glass casing from the wood. This time, the pain fades as soon as the glass leaves the surface, and the alarm goes suddenly silent, which is a relief to my aching skull. I toss the glass case to one side negligently, where it lands on an armchair by the small, roaring fire. My hands shaking, wondering if I really have gotten past all the barriers, or if more are to come, I reach out and pull the Sphere of Truth from its perch. It is chillingly cool to the touch, and much lighter than I'd imagined. It had looked quite heavy, but is barely heavier then one of my textbooks. I allow myself a smile of grim satisfaction. At long last, it is I who have power over the Sphere, and not the other way around.

The scene does not play out the way I'd imagined it so many times. For one thing, I cannot simply smash the Sphere to the floor—I must use magic to destroy it. I also didn't imagine that I would have blood streaming from my burning nose, nor did I ever picture Harry struggling valiantly behind me to hold Lucius Malfoy at bay without magic. But what is most notably different is that never, in all my dreams, was this moment more stunningly amazing.

I toss the sphere into the air with my left hand and aim Harry's wand with my right. This will be my only chance. In its ascent, the Sphere catches the light and glints. Lucius and Harry stop struggling to watch. Time seems to freeze—everyone is perfectly attuned to the movement of the Sphere. Nothing matters but that, for if I succeed, then everything here is settled.

I raise the wand, praying that my timing is correct. "_Finite_ _Invitus_ _Nodus_!" I say clearly, focusing all my thoughts and putting all my will into it. Never in all my life have I put such sheer force of will and feeling into a single spell. Even my words seem to be in slow motion.

And then the world erupts in crimson. Not just the glass shards falling, but a brilliant light that washes down, bathing us all in its phosphorescence. I feel as though I'm floating. My strength is growing with each passing instant. A rush of wonder passes through me. I feel something I have not felt in years—that everything is as it should be. Then these floating instants pass and I am back in painful reality, my whole body tingling, listening attentively to the glass rain sprinkling down around me.

I stumble, regaining my balance after the experience. The glass is littered at my feet. A gelatinous liquid is seeping along the floor, apparently released from core the Sphere. Some distance away I can see the golden bars that had once embraced the outside of the now nonexistent Sphere of Truth.

"_No_!" Lucius cries hoarsely. His eyes come alive with a mad, uncontrollable anger. "You will pay!"

He lunges towards me before Harry can stop him, but before I can even think about it, my wand arm is raised, and the word, "_Stupefy_!" has left my mouth. He slumps to the floor instantly and I do no more than stare at him and the destruction of the world around us. After all the endless, maddening noise, the silence surrounding me is startling in its potency. My dream has been fulfilled. I'm standing in a moment I'd only before imagined with a passionate longing. I see the glass case on the armchair, and on impulse, I reach out to it. In one swift motion, I slide it over the edge of the seat of the chair and watch as the crystal shatters, mingling with the blood red glass that already litters the floor.

In that instant I understand something that is both wondrous and frightening: it's over now. This most terrible part of my life has ended, opening a door to the next chapter. What lies ahead, unknown and mysterious, is sure to be terrible. But what lies behind is something I've been desperate to escape for a great many years.

I remember Harry's presence for the first time. He's suddenly right beside me, picking his way carefully through the glass and nursing a bruising jaw with his hand. He looks as bad as I must—his left eye is growing steadily darker from where Lucius hit him, and his glasses are dangling limply in his hand at his side, both the lenses shattered. There's a small trickle of blood running from the side of his mouth, as well as another seeping from his hairline. He looks exhausted, but he's grinning wearily. The two of us embrace instinctively. It's a relief to cling to him. In some way, it seems to verify that this all really is happening—that we really did succeed. While I know that so much still awaits me in the future, nothing could be as bleak as what I am now leaving behind. I have Harry. The Sphere is gone. Hope, however small and meager, does lie ahead. And that's enough to give me the courage to continue, and to restore the will to live that I lost so long ago.

"It's over, 'Mione," Harry murmurs softly. "You did it. You were great."

"Thank you," I whisper. "Thank you for everything. For believing in me enough to come with me this far."

"Well, I was right to trust you, clearly. I'm glad I did," he says, stepping away from me and looking around. "We have to get out of here now. Death Eaters are sure to be swarming up here any minute. How can we get out? Back under the Invisibility Cloak?"

"Floo Powder," I say, stepping over to Lucius's flaming furnace and picking some dust out of a dish on the mantle. "But where are we going?"

"Hideout in Diagon Alley," Harry mutters, bending down to grab his cloak from where he'd left it in a corner. He walks forward and takes some powder of his own. "Let's go, fast. Just say _'Resistance_ _sanctuary_--_Diagon_ _Alley'_."

I nod, but something deep within calls to me. I feel a great power within me, waiting to be unleashed. In those instants when the Sphere exploded, a surge of magical power had rushed inside me. I feel strong. Leaving the destruction behind is not enough. I want to leave a message with it. I hold up a hand, telling Harry to wait, and I turn and walk to a suitable position. Then, using a simple spell I'd learned in first year, I begin to mutter an incantation as I move Harry's wand along through the air in the form of letters. When I'm finished, three-feet-high words hover in midair, reading:_ YOU HAVE NOT WON_. I charm the letters to flash between gold and red, and throw in--with the aid of a very difficult charm--a roaring and slashing Gryffindor lion at the side.

With a small grin—the first smile of true happiness that I've worn in a long time—I look to Harry. He, too, is grinning. "Now it's done," I say softly. "Now they'll know that we're still out here, and it won't be as easy as they think to defeat us."

I walk back over to Harry, and for a moment, we are united as we stare at my work. There is something undeniably empowering in seeing that magical lion roar in the air, and a sort of pride overcomes me.

I hand Harry his wand, and something passes between us in that instant. On this day, I have severed an unwilling bond with Lord Voldemort—and at the same time, I have forged a new one with a best friend I thought I'd lost forever.

Leaving the destruction behind us, we step into the flames and are whisked away to a world of spiraling emerald.


	10. Crossed Boundaries

_10_

Crossed Boundaries

"_If I had the chance, love_

_I would not hesitate_

_To tell you all the things I never said before_

_Don't tell me it's too late."_

_--Sarah McLachlan_

With a sickening lurch of my stomach, my feet hit the ground with enough force to make my knees feel as though they've shattered. I hear Hermione come out of the flames, and I clutch my midsection, willing the feeling of imminent sickness to depart. After a moment, it does, and my eyes snap back into focus. I stand on shaky legs, but at least I'm steady. I cough out some of the ash trapped in my lungs from my journey through the Floo Network. Next to me, Hermione is looking dirtier than before, but much more composed than I feel. Then again, traveling by Floo Powder has always been one of my least favorite things to do—I'm completely intolerant of the spinning. I suppose that Hermione doesn't have the same reaction I do.

Hermione looks around herself. Her face is ashen and the black soot smeared across her cheeks is very noticeable. Our surroundings are bleak and plain, but I'm happy to see the place. Any shelter that's warm, protected, and not full of Death Eaters is a good place to be, as far as I'm concerned. Aside from the burning fire we just stepped out of, there is nothing contained in the one large room in which we stand. We're in the hideout Sirius spoke of earlier, a small building in a remote corner of Diagon Alley that has so far managed to avoid being destroyed by the Death Eaters as much of the rest of the Alley has been. It was at one point a shop of some sort, but our resistence managed to claim it and it's now protected by invisibility and Unplottable charms. Was it really just over two hours ago when I spoke to Sirius last? How could it be any less than two days?

Hermione takes a couple of steps forward before her knees collapse beneath her and she falls to a sitting position before I can catch her. I hurry to her side, kneeling down. "Are you okay?" I ask, concerned. Her face has gone from ashen to ghostly and she is shaking lightly. I look her up and down quickly, scanning for any injuries she might have that I've missed. "Hermione?"

She shakes her head. "Everything's just hitting me, that's all," she whispers. "Adrenaline was keeping me going, but now it's depleted and I'm back to feeling as weak as I did before I smashed the Sphere—weaker, even."

"Where are you hurt?" I demand, pulling out my wand. I can't see her all too well, due to the fact that my broken glasses are still dangling from my left hand. She shakes her head.

"No, Harry," she says adamantly, attempting to get to her feet. I push her back down. She lets out an aggravated sigh, but doesn't try to stand again. "Don't bother trying to heal me. You're weakened, too. Like Sirius said, healing takes a lot out of people. Don't bother. My nose is hurting, that's all. Other than that, there's nothing you could do anyway. You can't charm away the effects of the Cruciatus curse. You just have to wait for them to subside. I'll be shaky for a while, it's nothing new."

I clench my teeth at this statement, but say nothing. I sense that neither of us particularly wants to discuss everything that's just transpired. I remember how terrible it was, hiding in a corner of Lucius's office under the Invisibility Cloak and being forced to watch him torture her, knowing there was nothing I could do to stop him. I'd been taking a risk, touching the glass around the Sphere. I'd known it when I did it—it could have ruined everything. It was pure luck that it seemed to work in our favor. I simply couldn't watch him hurt her anymore without doing something.

Despite my desire to do something to help her, she's right in saying that there really is very little I can do. She doesn't seem to have the strength to rise or move, so I place my arm around her shoulders. She tenses for a moment and I consider backing away, but after a few seconds of uncertainty, she eases back into me, seeming grateful for something to lean on.

With my other arm, I place my glasses on the floor and pick up my wand. "_Oculus_ _reparo_!" I mutter, recalling the familiar spell. With a soft tinkling noise, I watch the spider-web patterns on the glass lenses disappear, and a soft click marks the moment when the cracked and dangling left arm snaps back into place. I replace them on the bridge of my nose.

"I remember when I first taught you that one," Hermione murmurs, a small smile coming across her face. "On the train in first year, when I was looking for Neville's toad."

"Yeah," I say with a bit of laugh. "And Ron was trying to turn Scabbers yellow, which didn't quite work. But then, what could he expect from a spell he'd gotten from George?"

Hermione's smile vanishes at the mention of Ron and George and she turns her head away. I berate myself mentally for having brought up that touchy subject. _Can't_ _keep_ _your_ _mouth_ _shut_, _can_ _you_, _Potter_? I growl to myself.

"Hermione . . ." I begin tentatively. We have a lot to discuss, and while sitting here on a cold floor after such a terrifying encounter and with such a poor lead-in to the discussion is not exactly ideal, I figure that it's as good a time as any. Now that I know for certain she's truly on my side, there's much to be decided. I open my mouth, but soon find myself to be doing an accurate imitation of a fish. I finally mumble, for no reason other than to cover the awkward silence left in the wake of my saying her name, "We've got a lot to talk about, haven't we?" I mentally congratulate myself on being a master of stating the obvious.

She nods, her eyes still downcast. Her shivers have stopped almost entirely now, but her breathing is still slightly erratic and she is pale. I recognize from experience that these are all aftereffects of the Cruciatus curse, which are amplified by repetitive use.

I glance towards the magically locked and secured entrance. "Would you like to sit outside and talk? We can't risk being seen in the front, Knockturn Alley is still running, so we'll have to sit in the alley out back. Not much of a view, but it's better than here."

Hermione frowns. "Are you sure it's safe?" she inquires with a touch of worry. She sounds so much like her old self in that moment that I can't help but grin.

"Well, no," I admit. "It's a bit of a security risk, and Dumbledore and Sirius wouldn't much like it. But come on, after all we've done today, I think the risk of sitting in an alley is rather insignificant, don't you?"

"Well, I'd hate to say that I survived all I did only to be caught and killed for sitting in an alley," Hermione returns, and while her face is serious, I can hear the slight trace of humor in her voice.

"That would be rather embarrassing, wouldn't it?" I agree. "If it makes you feel better, I'll cast an invisibility spell around the alley first. It's not fool-proof, but it should be enough, so long as we keep our voices low."

After a moment's hesitation, Hermione nods. "Yes, all right. I feel faint from the heat in here."

I frown at this. It's not what I would call warm in the room, despite the burning fire—it's really quite chilly. I open my mouth to ask if she's okay, but decide against it. I don't want to irritate her again, as I did earlier when I continually asked if she wanted to go through with the plan. As she's already pointed out, I can't do anything for her, and I can't help a fever—if that is indeed what she has. Perhaps it's another sideaffect of the Cruciatus Curse. I wouldn't know—I've never been put under it for so long.

"Okay, then," I say. "But speaking of Sirius, I really should let him know we made it out all right. He's probably worrying himself sick."

I pull away from her and stand up. She doesn't move from her position on the floor, staring up at me. I point my wand at the ceiling and mumble, "_Adlegatio_ _Impetrabilis_!" A blue jet of light streaks toward the ceiling and disappears. I tuck my wand away and offer her a hand to help her to her feet.

She does not take it. "What did you just do? I don't recognize that spell," she asks thoughtfully, her natural thirst for knowledge showing through.

"It's a special system Sirius and I set up earlier," I explain briefly. "They'll receive the jet of light, and they'll know that the mission was successful. They should be sending someone over here in a little while."

"You didn't tell me about the system because you didn't trust me," she states simply. She doesn't look hurt about this, but her eyes dare me to lie to her.

I nod, knowing she would catch me in any lie I could attempt to fabricate. "It was a precaution," I begin to explain hurriedly, hoping not to offend her. She holds up a hand, stopping me before I ramble further.

"Don't explain," she says, pushing herself to her feet. She sways a little and I reach out an arm to steady her. Once she appears to be standing on her own, she continues. "You were just being logical. If you hadn't taken such precautions, you'd have been a fool. You had no way of knowing for sure that I wasn't betraying you. And you had good reason to be suspicious."

I shift my feet uncomfortably for a moment before clearing my throat and muttering, "Uh, we were going to discuss this outside, right?"

"Right," she agrees quickly. I can sense from her tone that I'm not the only one eager to avoid the pending discussion.

I lead her to the small metal door in the back corner of the shop that opens to the alley beyond. I open the door and cautiously peek out, even though I feel there isn't much point in it. It's doubtful that anyone is lurking beyond. As I'd anticipated, the alley is vacant, and I beckon Hermione forward with my hand.

The difference in temperature hits me as hard as a concrete wall. Certainly, the room we were just in was not warm, but compared to this bitter, biting, relentlessly sweeping chill, it was sweltering. I shiver involuntarily and wrap my cloak tighter about myself. Hermione seems relieved at the cold, so I don't mention my own discomfort.

The alley we stand in is tight, small, and bleak. A rickety, collapsing wooden fence runs parallel to the back of our building, and keeps going along behind the buildings on either side. Light is scarce—only a bit of gray luminence filters down into this small crevice, and our main source of illumination is the light leaking in from either side of the building, where on both sides there is a small space before the next run-down and vacated shop can be seen. The cobblestone street beneath our feet is covered in just over an inch of pure white snow that glistens enticingly, untouched and undisturbed, not blemished by a single footprint or water droplet.

There is a set of three cracking and iced-over stone steps leading down from the door to the cobblestones. Using my hand, I quickly brush the snow off of the middle step and Hermione sits down. My hand stings from the contact with the icy snow, and I clench it into a fist in an effort to warm it with whatever body heat I may still possess. I hesitate a moment before stepping off the last step and onto the cobblestones. It seems almost criminal to destroy the perfection of the icy blanket that covers the ground. It's like when you're a child, and seeing that smooth layer of snow makes you crave nothing more than to jump in it, but after you do, and you look back at the damage you caused, you feel sorry for the beauty you stole from it. You long to see it whole again.

I walk to the center of the small alley and begin to put up some amateur invisibility charms. The charms are weak and will not sustain themselves for longer than half an hour, but I don't suppose we'll be out here any longer than that. Once I'm secure in the belief that each side of the alley has been shielded from the eyes of any potential onlookers, I return to the steps and sit down beside Hermione on the step. Though the snow has been cleared, a layer of ice still lies beneath and I sigh inwardly. My hands are already numb, and it doesn't seem as though the rest of my body will be fair any better.

Neither of us rushes to speak. We sit comfortably, but nervously, next to one another for over a minute, watching our warm breath frost and turn to mist in the air before diffusing and fading into nothingness.

Somehow, I feel as though I'm the one who needs to begin the conversation. My problem lies in the fact that I have no clue as to how I should start it, or even what I need to say. There are the simple and necessary apologies, and the discussion of what the future now holds, but how to lead in to that? For so long, I've harbored so many questions in my mind, and I've looked forward to a day when I may get to have this talk with Hermione. But now that the time has come, now that I'm certain of her loyalty, it's as though all my thoughts have run away, leaving my mind empty and tumultuous.

It seems I've been lost in my thoughts too long. Hermione lets loose a deep sigh and begins speaking. "Harry, before you start apologizing yet again, I must request that you don't."

Startled by these words, I stare for a moment before stuttering with no real direction or train of thought, "I . . ."

She shakes her head. "No, Harry. You've apologized enough, and though I've already said this, I will say it again in the hopes that after all we've been through today, you'll finally hear me. _You have no reason to apologize to me._ I don't blame you. Why would I?"

Thankfully, my brain—which seems to have frozen in a manner similar to my hands—chooses this instant to begin working again. "I don't know, maybe because of how awful I was to you when we talked that first night, because of all the cruel things I said? Because I never trusted you, my best friend of five years, enough to realize that you'd never betray us? I mean, I know I really couldn't have thought any differently, I just feel like kind of a heel."

"You can't blame yourself for those things," Hermione replies adamantly.

"Yeah, I know. I just feel the need to blame someone, I guess."

"Blame Voldemort," she says, and the sureness has returned to her voice. "Harry . . . both of us are victims in this. It's not your fault that you didn't trust me. Did you immediately assume, as soon as you saw me at Voldemort's side that day, that I had turned?"

I shake my head vigorously. "No, of course not! I thought he'd captured you, or something. Once it became apparent that you weren't his prisoner, I spent a lot of time convinced you were under the Imperius curse, or it was someone impersonating you with Polyjuice Potion. It took a long time and a lot of everyone else telling me so to finally make me believe that you were really a Death Eater."

Hermione nods understandingly. "If you spend enough time around people that believe something adamantly, then eventually you'll begin to believe it yourself. You lived with a group of people who thought I was a traitor, and after spending enough time listening to them and seeing everything that Voldemort and the Death Eaters were doing, you just gave up fighting it. It's easier to believe what everyone else does than it is to maintain your individual opinion when everyone around you is telling you differently. Besides that, for the past two years, I have been _trying_ to make you all believe that I betrayed you. That you believed it . . . well, that just proves that I did a good job.

"As for what you said to me that night . . . I won't lie to you. What you said really hurt. It was hard to live each day and know that you hated me, but confronting you and hearing you say those things made it all the more horrible. What you said about my parents . . ."

I feel my stomach lurch as I remember delivering that particular blow, remember how in some sick way, I had reveled in her pain. Never before have I wanted to sink into the ground more than I want to right now. "Hermione, I'm so sorry, I—"

Once again I'm cut off. "No apologies, remember? We've both said our '_sorrys'_, and now we need to get past that and talk without constantly feeling guilty," she says factually. "Agreed?"

"Yeah," I say, still feeling horrible. I realize now just how low a blow that had been. I of all people know what it feels like not to have your parents, but at least I never had to live with the knowledge that they'd been tortured to death. How could I throw that in someone's face with such ease, even if I had assumed that person was my enemy? Before, I'd never have sunk to such a level. I'd not even have said that to Malfoy. When did I turn so cold?

Hermione nods, staring down at her feet. The snow is beginning to fall again, and I watch numbly as the ivory flakes slowly begin to pepper her hair white.

"As I was saying," she continues, "what you told me of my parents . . . that's not something I'll ever forget. I . . . I can't believe that I was trying to help people, to help you, and I ended up getting my parents killed like . . . like that . . ."

She is losing her composure. Rather hesitantly, I put my arm around her and pull her closer to me. She's silent for a short period, but then continues as though no time has lapsed. "But I said we weren't going to do the guilt thing, didn't I? So the point I'm trying to make is that what you said hurt. But I don't blame you for that either. As far as you knew, you were facing an enemy. You were facing the person who had destroyed your life, betrayed your trust, and gotten people you cared for killed. Naturally you were full of anger. You wanted to hurt me the way I hurt you. You had no way of knowing the truth—I certainly wasn't doing much to make you believe the best in me. You had two years' worth of anger bottled up inside and you let it loose. If our roles were reversed, I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing. What matters is that after you were thinking more clearly, you helped me, and you gave me a second chance. And now here we are, somewhere we never could have been if it weren't for you, and the risks you took for me, even when you were still unsure of where my loyalties lay. What was done or said in the past is irrelevant. We can't go back and redo what's done, or re-make the decisions we've already made. We can't change what's already happened. But we can change what's _going_ to happen. But first we have to let go of all this guilt between us. We have to let go of all of these awful memories. Okay?"

Her words hit home. While I still feel bad about what I said, I know she's right. Now is certainly not the time to let such feelings control me. This is something that can be sorted through later. I've learned well how to compartmentalize, and I allow myself to tuck my guilt away. I give her a small smile, a silent promise to do as she's asked. She returns my grin, albeit somewhat weakly. Regardless, it's nice to see her face set in something other than an expression of pain and sadness.

"So—ignoring the past—where do we go from here?" I question.

"We can't do anything by ourselves," she sighs, fixing her eyes on a lopsided fence board, her brow furrowed in thought. "We'll need help from your people."

I nod. "Yeah. Well, I know that you are what you seem to be, and that will be enough for Sirius. If it's enough for him, then it'll be good for Dumbledore, and most everyone will believe Dumbledore. Hagrid can be convinced. With time, Katie, Angelina, and Neville will believe you. But as for Ron, Fred, George, and Ginny—particularly Ron—I don't think it's going to be that easy."

Hermione sighs. "I know why they hate me, of course. They'd be crazy if they didn't. But it still hurts."

I can't think of any way to reply to this without violating one of Hermione's regulations on this conversation, so I settle for saying nothing.

"Do you think they'll take you back?" she asks before the silence stretches for too long.

"Probably," I say after a moment's contemplation. "Even if Ron doesn't want to, Dumbledore can supercede him. And I don't think it's me that anyone's going to have a problem with."

"I can stay in the cave, if I'm too much of a bother," she offers immediately.

"If you stay there, so do I," I state simply. "I'm not leaving your side until this thing is played out. If they cast you out, they cast me out. End of story."

"You don't have to do that," Hermione argues. After a moment, the corner of her mouth twitches. "But you will anyway, won't you? I suppose there's nothing I can do but thank you."

I give her shoulders a squeeze to show I have acknowledged her words, but I don't reply further. "Now the problem is plotting our next course of action. Things aren't going to be easy for us anymore. We just infiltrated one of their main headquarters, beat up a head Death Eater, and destroyed the Sphere. They're going to come looking for us with everything they've got. We don't have a lot of technology or options on our side. If they make it top priority to find us, we've only got a limited amount of time until they do."

"We'll just have to do the best we can to elude them," she says, but her face is knotted with concern. "Hopefully if we avoid them for long enough, they'll give up." She shakes her head and puts her forehead in her palm. "That's the single worst plan ever invented, isn't it?"

I inhale sharply, causing her to look up at me. From some depths of myself that I didn't even know existed anymore, I feel defiance emerging. "No. We've been running for two years. It's time to stop. We can't keep avoiding them forever. It's time to confront them—now's as good a time as any. I don't know how or when, but enough is enough. No more running away."

I don't know where this sudden burst of confidence and decisiveness comes from, but I now feel secure in each word I speak. My words are heavy with grim resolve. While the idea of confronting Voldemort makes my throat constrict, I don't take back what I've said. Despite the fear that my words inspire, I know that I'm right.

"All we've been doing is showing them that they're beating us—slowly, but surely," I continue. "We have to show them that we're just as fierce as they are."

"But like you said, you've have been on the run," Hermione objects. "You can't have a lot of resources on hand. And Voldemort has control of the Wizarding populace, and an entire army—one that fights dirty. This is suicide, Harry."

"Maybe it is," I agree bluntly, and her eyes widen at my brutal honesty. "But we've got Albus Dumbledore and myself on our side. The only wizard Voldemort ever feared, and the only one who's ever defeated him. Plus four Weasleys that are out for a vengeance, and an incredibly smart witch with inside information that we can use against them. That's something. We could stand a real chance, especiallly if we fight the battle on our own terms. And if things don't go our way …" I gulp, but press on. "If we fail, then at least we'll die like Gryffindors. Because if we keep running, it's only a matter of time until we meet the same fate."

Hermione's face is lit by the first true smile I've seen since we were fifteen. She looks at me with something like admiration. "You're right. The very idea terrifies me, of course, but you're right. We can't run away forever, and if we try, we won't get far. And so far, all of your ideas have turned out for the best. I'll follow you, Harry. I'll do the best I can to help you. I can't promise much, but I can promise that."

Normally, a statement like this would have made me blush furiously, but somehow time is now standing still. Our eyes are still locked, and my brain seems to have frozen again. With no thought in the matter, with my body acting of its own accord, I lean slowly forward. Deep down, I understand what I'm doing, but I can't see what's making me do it. My mind is blank.

I feel my lips meet hers, and for a moment she seems to pull away, but before I can retract myself, she leans back toward me and our lips touch once more.

You would think that in a situation such as this, I would be focusing on nothing but Hermione, and that the background would, in a sense, fade away. In some odd way, though, it's as though all my senses are tuned, and I'm completely aware of every detail that surrounds me—the snow flakes that drift slowly down to join their fallen comrades on the cobblestones, the exact pattern and direction of the whispering wind, and the icicles dangling precariously along the roofline over our heads. Mostly, I'm aware of every movement Hermione makes, every expression on her face, every breath she draws. But oddly enough, in that moment the only thing I'm not aware of feeling—of knowing—is myself.

The kiss is short and soft, and we break apart after a moment or two. Our eyes are still locked, our faces little more than an inch apart, our breath warm on each other's faces. Hermione wears an expression of surprise and confusion, and I know my own face must mirror this. Before I have time to process exactly what we just did, a voice speaks up from behind me, startling me and making me leap to my feet with my wand readied.

"Hello, Harry."

I find myself staring at a figure in a black cloak, who stands stark against the white of the snow. Before I can even demand to know who he is, he reaches up and pulls down his hood. A familiar shock of red hair is revealed and Ron is staring at the two of us with an expression of barely concealed hatred, resentment, and sadness.

He looks from me to Hermione, then back again. "Well, Sirius said I'd most likely find the two of you here together," he says quietly. His eyes flick back to Hermione, and this time his voice is as cold as the air around us. "I guess I didn't realize just how _together_ you'd be."


	11. Interlude: Of Thoughts and Questions

Interlude:

Of Thoughts and Questions

"_All I ever think about is this_

_All the tiring time between_

_And how trying to put my trust in you_

_Just takes so much out of me."_

_--Linkin Park_

Is this really happening? Did he just kiss me? Did Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, who has hated me passionately for the past two years and is just now beginning to trust me again, just _kiss_ me? Certainly not. In no way could this be possible, or probable, or likely . . . and yet, if that's true, how do I explain the fact that our lips were touching? That he started it, and that I reacted?

We are looking in each other's eyes. I'm attempting to disguise my panicked confusion and shock, but know without a mirror that I'm doing quite the poor job of it. He is blinking erratically and staring at me with an oddly blank expression. I hope I haven't offended him by my reaction—because, truth be told, what just happened was quite enjoyable.

But what am I thinking? Enjoyable? I can't let myself begin to feel for him romatically! It's clear that he already feels for me in that way, and that's bad enough. I can't return those feelings. We're friends again, and that's dangerous enough—for him, for me, and for everyone he's associated with. Lucius and Voldemort will not give up looking for me, if for no reason other than to prove that they're still in control of me, regardless of the state of the Sphere of Truth. They will want me dead. In their eyes, I've lost whatever value I once held. Anyone I'm connected with will be in just as much danger.

And besides, do I really want to try to love someone again? I loved my parents, and now they're dead. I loved Harry and Ron and my life at Hogwarts, and of course that was destroyed. I am under no illusions about the fact that all of those losses were products of my own poor judgement and decisions. It seems like everyone I love, I end up destroying. Perhaps if it were the fault of someone else these past times, I could move on. But when I cannot trust myself. . . . Do I really want to risk losing someone I love again? I'm certain that I couldn't survive it. I've made it through each day these past years by keeping myself from caring about anything. Don't feel, don't hurt. I'd have gone mad long ago if I hadn't lived by this rule. Breaking that rule even once could be my undoing.

But aren't those days over? Haven't those days—of which every waking moment was spent in misery and self-loathing, and of which every sleeping instant was spent ravaged by nightmares—ended? Isn't this a second chance that I've been granted? Can't I afford to risk caring just this once? Can't I afford to seek contentment in this new chapter of my life? True, I may be misjudging everything. But what if I'm not? Am I overlooking a chance to be happy? Because what just happened a moment ago certainly made me feel happy, even if that happiness immediately spiralled down into the confusion I'm now plagued with.

I can't deny the fact that I did like it. And I like him. The feelings that surfaced in those instants when our lips met leave no room for uncertainties in this regard. But I just don't know if I can let myself trust that this won't end up as everything else in my life ultimately has: destroyed.

Can I ever escape the doubt?


	12. Change of Heart

11

Change of Heart

"_There's no one left to finger_

_There's no one here to blame_

_There's no one left to talk to, honey_

_And there ain't no one to buy our innocence."_

_--Sarah McLachlan_

My throat is so constricted by this point that I can barely force the air through my wind passage. Once again, my brain seems to have been numbed by some inner force that is just as fierce as the chill that has rendered my fingers useless and unfeeling. I long to swallow the lump that's risen in my throat, but I can't seem to. Even the fact that Ron is standing there, glowering at me with something as close to disgust as I've ever seen him direct at me, isn't enough to stop my mind from exploding in questions and confusion.

What did I just do? Have I gone utterly and irrevocably mad? I suppose I must have. What on earth gave me the idea to kiss her? Not a handshake, not a hug—bloody hell, not even a peck on the cheek—a _kiss_! Where did _that_ come from? What deeply buried part of my soul rose up and took control of me in that instant?

But I can't hold my indignant denial for long. The fact is, I know perfectly well where the urge to do what I did came from. Since the end of fourth year, when Hermione kissed me on the cheek during our departure from King's Cross Station, I've toyed with exactly how I felt for her. My understanding that Ron also harbored something of a crush on her kept my own feelings at bay. But once she seemingly betrayed us, I had plenty of time to stew over exactly how I felt. I realized that I had liked her—I stopped trying to keep it hidden from myself. And now, with the new understanding that all these years she wasn't the evil Dark supporter I'd assumed she was, I longed let her know how I felt before some outer force took her from me again.

She hadn't looked all too pleased right off, either. She'd almost pushed me away, and even though she didn't, once I pulled away, she wasn't exactly grinning. She looked horrified, and shocked, and a variety of other emotions—none of which could exactly be called positive. True, I hadn't had much time to examine her expression before Ron intruded on the moment—something that left me feeling even more conflicted inside—but I can feel my heart sinking nevertheless.

"Well?" Ron demands after several moments of heavy silence. "Are you going to say anything, or are we going to stand here gaping at each other until our limps drop off from frostbite?"

Ron's sarcasm hasn't changed much, but I can tell that this is not an attempt at humor, but rather, an biting remark made to get some rise out of Hermione or I. I send a backward glance at Hermione, who's still sitting on the steps, staring at Ron. Her cheeks are red, and she's seemingly unable to speak. I sigh, knowing that even had she been willing and able to speak, anything she could say would simply enrage Ron further.

I level my gaze at him, noticing that he is tensed and looks ready to jump on me at any second. Realizing just how wound up he is right now, I decide that it's best not to take the hostile approach. Ron's on a razor's edge, teetering dangerously between control and blinding rage. Should I say the slightest thing to provoke him, he'll go flying off to the wrong side. I've seen Ron in such a state before, though the emotions that had been toying with him then had not been quite the same. It had been right after Hermione's "betrayal", after he'd learned of his parents' deaths. It wasn't pretty. While Ron's always had a short fuse, I'd never seen him as uncontrollable as I had that night. Now, in an effort to prevent that from happening again, I fight to keep my voice even and calm as I say, "Ron, we—the three of us—need to have a talk."

He shakes his head curtly, and stares at me, refusing to look at Hermione. "No. You and I—_we'll_ talk. There is no '_the_ _three_ _of_ _us'_. The three of us ended a long time ago. Now there's the two of us, and the traitor."

I feel my temper rising, but I still fight to keep my voice even. "She's not a traitor. I'm sure someone's told you by now what we just did. I got the evidence I needed. Everything has been a big misunderstanding, and the three of us—yes, the _three_ _of_ _us_, because Hermione deserves a say—are going to talk, even if I have to put you under a full-body bind."

I immediately see that making this threat was a poor choice. Ron's wand is out now, quivering in my face, before I can even reach for mine. I raise my hands a little over my head, the way Muggles often do in television cop shows.

"All right," I say. "I won't curse you, if you'll just hear us out."

"_You_ won't curse _me?_ Who has the wand, Harry?"

I sigh in aggravation. "Ron, please …" I growl.

He stares at me for a few moments, finally letting out out an angry breath. "Fine. I'll hear _you_ out. Not her."

I am ready to release a chorus of choice words for Ron, but realize that doing so with his wand mere inches from my nose is most likely a bad idea. I look back at Hermione, who seems frightened and saddened by Ron's reaction. Never in our Hogwarts days was Ron so violent toward anyone, even when he was being a stubborn, pigheaded prat. It must shock her to see him react so coldly toward me—and it must hurt her to know that she'll never be anything more than a traitor in his eyes.

At last, I nod. At least Ron has come here with enough of an open mind to listen to me. And if I can get him to believe what I say, then maybe, with time and effort, he can start to listen to Hermione, too. I knew even before we put our plan into action that it would take more than my word to convince Ron that she's truly on our side. It will take a lot of time, but I'm willing to do whatever's necessary to reconcile them. I'd give anything to have the three of us together again. Not the way we were before, of course; that could never happen. We've been through too much, seen too much, done too much, and been hurt too badly to ever return to the way we were. But that doesn't mean there's no chance for us to be the trio again. A different trio, yes; but a trio nevertheless. And now that there seems a good, solid chance of that happening, I don't intend to let it go.

Ron tilts his head toward the door, aims his wand at it, and mutters, "_Aperio_!" It opens immediately, narrowly missing the back of Hermione's head in the process. She scuttles backward quickly, and I bite back a comment. I know Ron did that on purpose, and even had Hermione been sitting just a little closer, he'd have done it anyway.

"Inside," he says bluntly, his eyes darting between Hermione and I nervously, as though expecting one of us to curse him the moment his back is turned.

My patience with his attitude is dwindling, but I nod as respectfully as I can and walk up the steps and into the building. I cast a small look back at Hermione, who is standing some distance away by the fence, her eyes on me, her face unreadable. I momentarily consider reassuring her, but decide against it.

Once we're both inside, Ron closes the door sharply behind me. The slight increase in temperature makes me worry for Hermione. Despite her assurances that the cold air had been doing her good, that would only be true for so long. It was far too cold to be outside for any extended period of time. She didn't even have a wand to warm herself with.

I dare not mention my concerns to Ron—whom I am glaring at as he warms his hands by the dying fire—for I would run the risk of angering him. The only way for me to make him see reason is for me to keep him as calm as I possibly can. I know how difficult he is to reason with under normal circumstances, but that is to say nothing of how he is when he's angry. It feels ridiculous, being so overly conscious of keeping my best friend in a stable frame of mind, but I know that it's the only way I can do this.

As I watch, Ron conjures two armchairs with a flick of his wand and positions them so that they're near the fire and facing each other. Before sitting down himself, he looks up at where I stand by the rear exit, not having moved. The silence is broken only by the soft crackling of the flames. He motions at the empty armchair across from him.

"I didn't summon a second chair to rest my feet on, you know," he comments. His tone is bland, almost conversational. He no longer seems angry, but I know how quickly that can change, particularly when he's in such a volatile mood. Being best friends with the guy for seven years has left me with some understanding of the way he works, and I can sense that the slightest mislaid word would still be enough to set him off.

Obligingly, I cross the room and sit down, hiding my apprehension. I'm silent, at a completely loss for what to say. This is different from earlier, during my conversation with Hermione when my mind had stopped responding; no, my brain is fully functional. I just can't think of how to touch upon the subject without angering him. There aren't even any words rolling through my mind—it's silence, inside and out. In the end, I realize it's he who must begin this. I need to start off playing the defense, allow him a chance to yell at me for being a fool and everything else I know he's thinking. Let him vent all his anger, leave him feeling hollow and uncertain. Then I'll gradually take up the offense.

At last, Ron speaks softly, his eyes trained on the fire's phosphorescent, flickering flames, the shadows tap-dancing across his face as the light glints in his eyes. "Haven't had a day this cold in a long time."

Despite having decided on a tactic I knew would work, I must admit that controlling my emotions has never been my strong suit. While I'm not as much of a hothead as Ron, I can have my moments, and this, unfortunately, is one of them. I am unable to bite back a response. "Yeah, I feel sorry for anyone left out in it."

Ron does not miss the implication in my words, but to my great surprise, he doesn't rise to the challenge. He sighs, and lifts his eyes to mine. I can see in them now a different emotion than I'd been expecting—there is no trace left of anger, only a deep, hollow sadness.

"You love her, don't you?'

I had been expecting an angry or sarcastic retort, an insult, a rude comment, anything other than this. I am caught completely off-guard. "Wh-what?" I stutter.

Ron sighs. "Oh, come on, Harry. You've gambled everything on the slight chance that our beliefs about her were wrong, you risked your life numerous times for her, you just _kissed_ her—do I really have to ask the question again?"

I consider a response, my mind still racing. Though Ron could never know it, he's just asked a question I've been struggling to ignore for days. A question that's been eating at me, one that I've ignored because the answer is one that is too risky, too unlikely, too dangerous to ever let myself acknowledge.

I open my mouth to lie, but know that Ron would catch me in an instant. At last, with an inward groan, I try to explain my complex web of emotions without denying or agreeing with his question.

"I'm not sure if _love_ is the right word," I finally mutter. "It's way too soon for that. I need more time. Maybe before I could have said it . . . but not now, not really. After everything that's happened . . . she's like a stranger to me. But at the same time, I've never known or understood anyone better. It's confusing. I do feel _something_—something I don't know how to describe. Something stronger than friendship, but . . . less than love. Less than _romantic_ love, anyhow."

Ron shakes his head and glances down at his hands. Suddenly, it is I who begins to get irritated.

"Go on, then," I snap, making him glance up at me, frowning in confusion. Though I've not really acknowledged it, I've had a good deal of anger pent up inside me ever since he exiled Hermione and I. In the ongoing silence, sitting across from him, I just don't feel as though I can hold it in any longer. "Tell me how you feel about me right now. Yell, scream, curse me. Tell me I've been an idiot for trusting her. Insult me, insult her, say all the choice words I know you're dying to. Go on, don't hold back. I'm waiting!"

Ron just stares at me. The silence has grown heavier than ever, and I suddenly feel humiliated at my outburst. Ron's expression is impassive, unreadable. My face is burning a little bit by the time he finally speaks, his voice not having raised an octave over the tone he's been using since we'd stepped inside.

"You want to know how I feel, do you?" he asks. At first, I take it for a rhetorical question, but once his gaze remains leveled on me for a good ten seconds without a word, I realize he does want a response.

"Yeah, I do," I agree, not wanting to back down now, but keeping my voice civil.

"Well, I'd love to tell you, except that I don't really know myself. I'm rather numb right now," Ron explains slowly. He shakes his head a little, and rubbing his temple. "I came here today knowing pretty much what to expect—you and Hermione together, you claiming she's really on our side. I didn't like it, but I was prepared for it. When I walked around the side of the building, I didn't see you right away. Of course I wouldn't have—the invisibility barrier and all. I heard your voices, though, so I assumed about the barrier. I just kept walking forward until I went through it, and then . . . well, needless to say I didn't exactly expect to see what I did. I was mad. I couldn't believe you were kissing her. You were betraying all of us. As long as she was in my line of sight, I just couldn't think straight. I wasn't even mad at you like I thought I was at first—just her. I was laying every bit of blame on her. I think I've blamed her for literally everything, from you kissing her, to the snow falling. But now that I'm a bit calmer . . . I dunno what to think. Part of me feels like a real jerk. But the other part of me still doesn't trust her. I just don't understand anything anymore, Harry. When did everything get so complicated? How did the line between enemy and friend become so blurred?"

My aggression has diminished just as quickly as it arose. For the first time since all this started on that cold snowy day when my eyes met Hermione's at the top of Gryffindor Tower, I am seeing Ron for himself again. Despite all his anger and coldness, deep down he's just lost and confused. I've not thought much of his feelings lately. All I've been able to see is his anger, his thickheaded refusal to grant Hermione another chance. I never bothered to look deeper, to see what was really fueling his anger. But now I do see it.

Ron blames Hermione—and Hermione alone—for the death of his parents. He believes that by letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, she started the chain of events that led to his parents' demise. It's an irrational belief—Voldemort would have found another way to power, and his parents died because they were doing their best to restore peace—and I've known that for some time. I think he knows it deep down, too. But that's not something he'll ever admit to, because he wants someone to blame for it, and it's easier to blame Hermione—one girl without a whole lot of power—than it is to blame Voldemort, whose fault it really is. By blaming Voldemort, he has to face the fact he'll never have the strength to avenge his parents. He'll never feel as though he's doing anything—he'll feel helpless. But by laying the blame on Hermione, he can believe that one day he'll be able to exact revenge. Sadly, Fred and George seem to have taken up this same belief. Of the Weasleys, Ginny alone has managed to avoid falling into this trap. She has hated Hermione because of her betrayal—but she has blamed Voldemort for the destruction of her family.

It was easy for him to choose to believe this when she was far away, just as it was easy for me to see her as a cold-blooded traitor. But when we saw her that day, his beliefs had begun crumbling, just as mine had. His depression and confusion had come out as aggression. He didn't want me to become involved with her in any way, for it could jeopardize his carefully erected mental sanctuary, where everything was Hermione Granger's fault. When it hit so close to home that I had brought her to our hideout, it was all he could think of to get rid of her through any means necessary—taking me with her if it came down to it, which it did. But now it's gotten too far beyond his control. He's beginning to realize that he can't live in denial forever—but he's still so hesitant to let go.

"Ron," I begin, "I understand."

Ron gives the floor a sad sort of smile. "No, you don't."

"I do," I repeat, my tone fierce enough to make him look up. "I lost my parents, too, remember? Sure, it's harder for you—you knew them, you had always had them around. But I still know what it feels like—the hatred, the consuming anger that you feel for the person to blame. Those feelings are all right; they're natural. You just can't direct them at the wrong person."

"I know!" Ron cried, his voice somewhat strangled. To my great alarm, he looks like he might cry. "But I just can't . . . it's not easy, facing up to the fact that you've been a grade-A jackass for the past two years. It's not easy to set aside beliefs that you've held for so long. It's not easy to look into her face . . . the lingering anger and the guilt . . . I can't do it, Harry. My strength is gone. I don't have enough left to face up to it."

"Of course you do," I say simply. "It may seem too hard now, but Hermione's not going to hate you. Trust me. She's too worried about _us_ hating _her_. She still isn't completely firm in the belief that I don't hate her for what she's done, and she certainly won't be with you."

"Exactly!" he says. "I'd rather have her hate me! I could deal with that—we've been arguing from the day we met. Anger between us would be nothing new. But to have to watch her be constantly fearful that I hate her makes me feel awful. I noticed her expression out there. I didn't care at first—I was too angry. But now I do. I believe you, Harry. It took me time, and I'll probably still end up acting like a jerk for a while, but I do believe you. I know you wouldn't trust her fully unless you had a reason. That's why I was so scared when you started to trust her. Because I knew I could trust _you_."

I allow satisfaction to wash over me for an moment. We're getting somewhere! With work, this can be sorted out, I just know it.

"You don't need to tell me this," I say. "You need to tell Hermione."

He shakes his head vigorously. "I can't. Not yet."

"You have to!" I insist.

"No," he snaps. "Look, just . . . just give me a day or two, will you? Then I'll talk to her. I can't right now. But let her know that whatever I may say . . . I don't hate her. I did at one time, but not now."

"I'll tell her," I assure him. "But she won't take it as anything more than me trying to make her feel better until you say something."

He nods. "Yeah, I know. But it's all I can do right now. I need time, Harry."

"Don't take too long. You have a chance to get something back that you never thought you could. Don't sacrifice it."

He nods again and stands up, looking uncomfortable. He scratches his head, clears his throat, and says in a businesslike manner, "Well, I came here originally to tell you that you're to stay here until dark. Sirius will come for you then and take you to our hideout. We have a lot of strategizing and discussing to do." He turns abruptly and begins to walk toward the front door. I can tell he's desperate to escape, but I call after him nonetheless.

"You should stay," I say tonelessly, knowing it's hopeless.

"I really can't," he mutters. "Got to get back or . . . Ginny'll get worried . . . you know . . ."

The words are true; knowing Ginny, I know she will grow to worry. But while they're true, the reason is a lie. I nod anyway and say quietly, "Safe traveling."

"Right," he agrees before quickly scuttling out the door.

As it closes behind him, the door clicks softly. The sound is slightly jarring. When we entered this building, not ten minutes ago, I'd half expected it to end with him slamming the door shut in my face, for perhaps the final time. The silence and softness with which he has excused himself is startling, and at the same time, relieving. Everything is working out as I want it, for the first time in longer than I can remember. Hermione's on our side again, Ron's almost ready to forgive her, we're on the verge of being the trio again. But even as I begin to feel hopeful, I just can't shrug off the terrible feeling that things are too perfect. Perhaps these past years have just made me overly cynical. Or perhaps, deep in my mind, in a place I refuse to acknowledge, I'm sensing something real.

I rise and walk toward the back door, to summon Hermione inside and wait for darkness to fall.


	13. Spirit's End

12

_Spirit's End_

"_So many ways spent hiding_

_In so many undone plans_

_Forgetting what it's like to fight_

_When no one understands."_

_--Sarah McLachlan_

Night falls rapidly.

As the curtain of darkness descends, it brings along a sweeping and pervasive chill. Slowly, as the hours pass, a storm brews. Now, as we sit warming ourselves as best we can by the fire, a screaming vortex of falling ivory flakes spins outside the window. We can no longer see the storm—but we can most certainly hear it. The high pitched shrieking of the wind does an accurate impression of an irate banshee. The temperature has dropped to what must be near or below zero, and even the fire is not enough to keep us adequately warm. We have scooted closer together in the chairs Ron left, trying to share our body heat. Still, there is a definitive gap between us, both mentally and physically. Neither of us dares to get too close to the other. I know I'm still confused over the events of earlier, and I suppose Harry is as well.

A silence has fallen along with the darkness. The only sound comes from the wind's howling and the fire's crackling. It would be a picturesque winter scene, if it weren't for all the worry and tension that hold us bound. Not a word has been spoken between us in the past two hours—not out of anger or irritation, but purely out of a desire to think the thoughts the plague us. Harry's eyes, as far as I know, have not moved from the waves of the flames in over an hour.

The last time we spoke—meaning that we held an actual conversation, not exchanged simple two- or three-letter words—was immediately after Harry came to call me in after Ron had departed. I had stepped into the building hesitantly, glancing around myself, uncertain if I wanted to come inside if Ron was still there.

"He's gone," Harry had stated quietly, seeing my reaction. He nodded behind him, back toward the leaping and playful flames. "Come on, hurry up, it's cold out there."

When I stepped in, I noticed the two chairs that had appeared since the last time I was there. I followed Harry's lead as he walked toward one and sat down. He looked to me expectantly, and I took the seat across from him.

I could see in his carefully guarded eyes that he wanted me to ask the question he knew I would—I could see that he wouldn't bring it up unless I did, and that didn't leave me feeling positive about how it had gone, not that I'd had a good feeling to begin with. I had felt slightly heartened when, listening closely at the door from outside, I'd heard no shouting. There had only been the dull murmur of inaudible voices. But I know from past experience with Lucius and Voldemort that some of the most threatening and terrible conversations take place in low voices rather than screams.

Finally, with a deep breath and a mixed desire about whether I wanted to know or not, I asked, "So?"

Harry skirted around it a bit. "Well . . . we talked," he muttered, stating the obvious with the art of a master.

"And?" I prompted.

After a few moments of prolonged silence, Harry said, "Ron doesn't hate you, Hermione. And he doesn't blame you anymore . . . not really. He's just confused. He wants some time to think before he sees you and talks to you. Besides that, you know how his pride is. He didn't say it out loud, but I don't think he wanted to come up to you and admit he'd been wrong—his ego needs a little time to settle on it first."

An abrupt anger overcame me then, and I found myself losing my temper with Harry. "Look, don't think you have to sugar-coat it for me. I've been through a lot in the past two years, and if you think what he says now is going to break me, you clearly know me even less than I thought you did. I'm not letting Ronald Weasley—who is notorious for being one of the most stubborn people alive—get to me. It'll disappoint me, yes, because I'd like to have him for a friend again. But if that's one thing of many that I can't regain, then that's all right. Just don't lie to me!"

Harry sighed. "I knew you'd react this way, I told him you would. But I'm not lying."

I snorted dryly. "Oh, yes. _That's_ why he's been so angry every time I've seen him—_that's_ why he kicked you out. Because he _doesn't_ blame me. The next thing you're going to tell me is that Voldemort is forfeiting to Dumbledore and Lucius and Draco will volunteer to be servants for the Gryffindors."

"I told you I wasn't lying!" Harry snapped. He immediately sank back into his chair, rubbing his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day and we're both tense and tired. It's probably best if we don't discuss anything right now, or else we might end up saying things we don't mean. We need each other right now. We'll have enough in-fighting once you come back to the group with me later. We don't need anymore."

I had nodded, and that had been the end of our conversation.

Much of the following hours I spent contemplating Ron and Harry and what had really happened between the two of them. Try as I might, I just cannot believe that Ron actually said what Harry claims he did. Ron hasn't been with me as Harry has, he hasn't any reason to feel that I've changed. So am I supposed to believe that after everything he's done to show he blames me, suddenly Harry's word is enough for him? I don't buy it.

I wonder what Harry is thinking about as I sit trying to focus on the happier events of the day. His face is drawn and tight, a grim expression in his eyes, and I know whatever he is thinking is not pleasant. I do my best to keep myself thinking about how the Sphere is broken and how I might have a chance, but just as quickly as that joy filled me, it has left. For I know that our saga hasn't ended yet. I'm safe—temporarily. Things are getting better. But things could easily take a turn for the worse. Voldemort is out there, looking for Harry and his group with even more vigor than before, I'm sure. Sooner or later that situation is going to boil over into a violent confrontation, and the odds of us emerging victorious—or even alive and running—are somewhere in the negative region.

I must have dozed off sometime, because the sound of a knock at the door jars me awake suddenly. My head snaps up from where it had been resting on Harry's shoulder, and I feel the beginnings of a crick in my neck. Harry is already at his feet, wand held tightly in his hand, staring at the door with a look of apprehension.

"We have a special knock," Harry whispers to me, his eyes never leaving the front door. "That wasn't it."

I feel Harry's tension for a fraction of a second before the knock comes again, and this time I can hear a distinct rhythm to it. Harry notices as well and lets out a sigh, a sign that all is well. Still, I can see the irritation in his face. He walks toward the door and throws it open, wand still held close in case of a trick.

Sirius steps into the room, a flurry of snow and a wave of cold air on his heels. Harry forces the door closed and locks it again.

"Did you forget the knock or something?" Harry demands testily. "You damn near scared us into running!"

"Sorry," Sirius growls, but he doen't sound contrite as he pulls down the hood of his cloak to reveal a very irritated expression. "Our has a different signal. Ron gave me yours and I got distracted when the wind nearly blew my bag away."

"Yes, well, I suppose it's always good to get the adrenaline pumping," Harry muttered, a bit less angrily.

"Well isn't this one hell of a welcome. Harry, I have spent the past hour walking through this storm because Dumbledore thought it was too dangerous to Apparate right into Diagon Alley. You have spent the past hour nice and warm with a fire right in front of you. Please, don't make me lose my patience."

"Yeah, well _you_ aren't the one who snuck around Puerclades earlier and risked death. _You_ aren't the one who was tortured. _You_ aren't the one who nearly didn't make it out alive. No, _you're_ the one who walked through the snow. You're right, Sirius, our troubles pale in comparison to yours."

"Harry—" Sirius says, looking surprised by his godson's irritation. I am surprised myself. I had no idea Harry had grown so testy in the hours of our silence.

"I'm sorry," says Harry a bit more calmly. "I'm just really tense right now."

Sirius nods slowly. "It's all right. Some food ought to help you calm down."

"You have food?" Harry asks with interest. I realize for the first time just how hungry I've grown.

"Not with me, no, but they've got some ready back at the hideout," says Sirius. He sets down the small bag he carries and opens it, pulling out two black jackets. He tosses the first to Harry, who eagerly puts it on. The fire is almost dead now, extinguished by the air blown in by Sirius's arrival. The light is so dim it's difficult to see. Sirius tosses the second cloak to me. I catch it and begin to shrug into it when I feel his eyes on me. I look up.

"The plan went accordingly?" he asks me quietly.

"Yes," I reply.

He gives me a slight smile. "Good."

I remember how he'd asked me not to hurt Harry again, and I sense that he is referring more to this than to the actual plan of destroying the Sphere. While I can't say I've fulfilled the promise of which he speaks, I'm on my way. A feeling of warmth washes over me for an instant. It feels good not to let someone down—it's a feeling I haven't known for far too long.

Sirius looks down and grabs something else out of the bag and throws it to me. Distracted, my arms caught up in the jacket, I miss it and it rolls to a stop at my feet. I look down and see a dark, ebony wood wand lying at my feet.

"It's an old one," he says. "Dumbledore provided it."

I bend down and pick it up once I've managed to get my arms where they belong in the jacket. I roll it over in my hands, looking at its dark wood and feeling its smooth texture. It's cold as ice, and while I'm relieved to be armed, at the same time, holding it makes me vaguely uneasy. I tuck the wand away into a pocket of my jacket and the feeling away into a pocket of my mind.

I look up to see both of my companions watching me, their faces carefully blank. I feel anxious under their gaze and look down, wishing they'd find something else to focus on. I've grown used to being ignored, and it's the times when people _do_ pay attention to me that I fear. That feeling has not yet left me.

"You ready, Hermione?" Harry asks softly. "I don't know about you, but I'd really like some of that food."

I nod, remembering once more where it is we're headed. I'm to face all of my one-time friends again. My hunger is quickly replaced by a boiling nausea, and I doubt I could eat anything and hold it down.

"Good, good," Sirius says, pulling out a small bag and walking toward the fire. He dumps powder from the bag into his palm and throws it into the fireplace. The crimson flames melt into glistening emerald and the fire is reincarnated, licking at the shadows and salivating ash. The green light it casts around the room is not so much comforting as it is eerie.

Always one to seek knowledge, I can't help but speak the question that's on my mind. "Sirius, you said Dumbledore didn't want you Apparating, but why didn't you use Floo Powder?"

Instead of Sirius, it is Harry who answers me. "We're hiding out, Hermione. Floo Powder is hard to come by. What little we get we have to steal from Dark wizards, and that's far too risky to do often. We reserve it for when there's no other option."

"Oh," I say simply, watching the leaping flames play their dancing game.

Without another word, Sirius steps forward and yells, "Harry's hideout!" Like some phony Muggle magician, he spins away into nothingness.

Harry and I are alone once more. He steps forward and looks back at me. I have not moved, nor do I want to. My eyes are still focused on the almost hypnotizing flames. I may have proved my innocence to Harry, even to Sirius and Dumbledore, but who's to say the others will have forgiven me? I don't want to face it. Not now, not ever.

I feel him take my hand and look up. His face is still blank, but he says soothingly, "It'll be fine. We'll go together. Just yell what Sirius did at the same time as me, and we'll go at the same time."

I nod slightly and allow him to pull me forward. By some miracle, I manage to force out the words at the same time as Harry, and I step into the green flames beside him, still in a state of numbness.

It's cramped in the green vortex, and in my already nauseous state, I almost vomit. I realize that Harry's arms have ended up around me, and he is holding me close. This is the last thing I notice before the Floo Network spits us out.

If I thought the landing would provide some type of relief, I was wrong. While usually one can step out of the fire with some kind of grace, I now find myself lying atop Harry on the wooden floor of his hideout. He is coughing—I have likely winded him—and my nausea has not subsided. I roll off of him, and on all fours, I wretch in the direction of the floor. Only air is produced; it's been too long since the last time I've eaten for anything to come up.

My nausea begins to retreat and now I can focus, which I can't say is exactly a blessing. Being on my hands and knees, all I can see is their feet, but the feet are all around me. This is an okay view, in my mind. It's their faces I fear.

Beside me, Harry is standing. It is utterly silent, so silent, in fact, that I wonder for a moment if perhaps everyone has ceased to breathe. A hand is held out to me and I grab it, allowing its owner to pull me to my feet. Naturally, it is Harry whose hand I grasp. The divide between the two of us and the rest of his resistence is practically palpable.

Before us, in the cramped living room of the house, sits a large crowd of people, all of whom are staring at me. Ginny, Fred, George, and Neville are piled on the small couch, so tightly pressed together that it must be slightly uncomfortable. On a chair nearby, Hagrid is sitting, his eyes boring into me unreadably. Angelina and Katie are standing, arms folded across their chests, not making direct eye contact with anyone. On a mismatched chair that he must have summoned himself, Dumbledore sits, watching me through his half-moon glasses, his gaze making me more uncomfortable than anyone else's. Sirius, Lupin, and Mad-Eye Moody stand in the corner, talking quietly. Lupin and Sirius have already seen me and so do not feel the need to stare, I suppose, though Lupin does send me a small smile. While I've never met the real Moody, from what I've heard of him, he doesn't seem the type to stare when he could be discussing, and he is living up to that image. Ron is not present.

For at least thirty seconds, it's a silent staring contest where no one dares move, each side too afraid to break the silence first. I look to Dumbledore furtively, hoping he will start whatever discussion is to come, but he is waiting patiently, probably understanding that it will do him no good to begin this. It should be started by someone more directly involved. While I understand his reasoning, I can't say I like it.

At long last, Ginny stands. Her face is blank as she walks forward. All eyes are now on her as she hesitantly steps closer to me. When she is about five feet away, she halts. Her eyes bore into mine, searching for answers to her questions. I guess she finds them, because a moment later, she shyly hugs me.

"Hermione, I never wanted to believe it," she says before pulling away.

I try to give her a small smile, but I am too unnerved by all those standing behind her, all those who've expressed neither welcome nor hostility. But what is even more unnerving is the fact that Ginny has broken the temporary stare-down. Now is the moment I've been dreading.

As Ginny steps to the side to welcome Harry quietly, Neville stands. He looks at me with painful hope in his eyes.

"Like Ginny said, I never wanted to see you like they did," he mutters. "But I had no reason not to. I believe Dumbledore, though. If he trusts you . . . so do I. Welcome back." He looks for a moment as though he wants to come forward and hug me as well, but in the end, his shyness overcomes him and he sits back down, cheeks red and burning, eyes glued to the floor.

I feel a small surge of hope. Two of them have forgiven me. But that hope comes crashing down when the Weasley twins stand and send an angry glare in my direction.

"We don't believe it," George says coolly. "Maybe you've convinced Harry—"

"—By magic possibly!" Fred adds.

"—But you've got a long way to go before we can trust you again," he finishes. "I'm not saying we never will. I guess I can give you the benefit of the doubt, a chance to prove yourself to the rest of us. But for now, we're taking Ron's side."

Fred nods in agreement. They don't sit down again, probably hoping to appear more intimidating.

My stomach is churning as I look to Angelina and Katie. They see me looking at them and exchange a glance. It is Angelina who speaks. "Hermione . . . we don't know either way. This has all happened so fast . . . just let us make our own judgement, with time."

I give them a nod. I can understand that. I'd rather have them all at that stage than have some of them on one side and some on the other. Doubt and uncertainty are what I'm used to. While I understand the hatred, I don't want it. And while I appreciate the support Harry, Ginny, and Neville have shown me, I have trouble accepting it.

Now Hagrid steps forward, his face slightly moist with tears. He looks as if he wants to hug me, but refrains, for which I am glad. He sometimes loses control of his own strength, and for the time being I like having my bones intact. But he gives me a watery smile.

"Hermione, like Neville said, if Dumbledore believes yeh, so do I. It's good to have yeh back with us," he murmurs. "Thank Merlin Harry had the courage to help yeh."

"Yes, Hermione, welcome back," says a serene, smooth voice. Dumbledore is now standing, only a few feet in front of me, smiling softly.

My throat too tight to speak, I simply nod.

"I do hope you won't mind if I cut the reception short, but we have much to discuss. We are in a dire situation, that is one thing we can all agree upon." Dumbledore, with a wave of his hand, has pushed all the furniture back so that it lines the walls, giving us more room. As the chair hits the wall beside Moody, he leaps and fires a curse at it, followed by a glare at Dumbledore. Dumbledore winks in Harry's direction, a small smile playing on his lips. He then conjures a table filled with food. Harry moves forward with the rest to grab a bite before the food is all taken—the Weasley twins are already eating with unnatural speed—but I hang back. I don't feel enough a part of them to step forward and take anything. I feel as though it would be stealing, almost.

Harry, however, notices my hesitancy. He walks back and stands before me. "Come on, Hermione. You've got to be hungry," he says quietly.

I shake my head. "Not really," I whisper.

With an almost comical amount of hesitancy, he puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me forward. "It'll be okay. They're all willing to give you chance. Ron's coming around, and so will Fred and George. Trust me."

"Sure," I mutter, unconvinced.

Everyone, now holding food, has taken seats on the floor, surrounding the table in a large circle. Lupin, Sirius, and Moody have moved to join us. Moody remains the only one standing, positioned slightly back from the rest and watching us with his abnormal eye spinning in a disturbing way. Upon Harry's insistence, I sit. Dumbledore is next to Harry, and Neville is next to me. He gives me another shy smile before looking away.

A hush has fallen again, and all eyes dart between, Harry, Dumbledore, and I. The rush to grab food had given everyone something easier to focus on for a few minutes, but now the discomfort has set in once more. Dumbledore clears his throat. "While I'm sure most of you expect me to conduct this discussion, I feel it would be impolite not to allow Harry to lead it. He has much to say, I am sure, and there are many matters that need to be sorted. This is his group, his hideout, and I am merely a guest. Harry."

Harry shifts next to me, sitting up a little straighter and trying to appear the strong-willed leader Dumbledore clearly expects him to be. "Er, right. Well . . . I guess we need to sort out the positions Hermione and I will hold. Who's the leader in Ron's place?"

"You're the leader again," Fred states, looking a little ashamed. "Sorry we kicked you out before, mate. We weren't really thinking all too clearly . . . but Ron agreed to let you take over again."

"I don't really think he thought much of himself as a leader," George adds.

Harry gives a small nod. "All right. Then we need to talk about Hermione. First of all, whether you believe her or not, I expect you to treat her with respect. I'm not saying you have to trust her—take all the time you like to get to that stage. But I don't want people playing tricks on her—" a look is cast in Fred and George's direction—"or being cruel—verbally, or otherwise. Does anyone have a problem with that?"

"Ron will," Fred says quietly, his eyes trained to the floor.

"I've spoken with Ron. He'll deal with it," Harry says bluntly. "Does anyone _else_ have a problem?"

Many surprised looks are exchanged, people clearly startled by Harry's irritable tone, and no one dares speak up.

Harry nods. "Good. I'm sure you can tell I'm not too happy right now. It's not that I'm angry with you; if this had all happened differently, if someone else had done what I did with Hermione and I were in Ron's position, I can't say I wouldn't have done the same things. I can't say I wouldn't have believed the same things. I won't hold that against you. But I'm quite worried, because what we did earlier had an unforeseen side effect: Voldemort's pissed off. We knocked out his head Death Eater, made that man look like a fool, destroyed the Sphere, and took off. Yeah, I'd say we've made him mad. But Voldemort doesn't slam doors and throw things. When he's mad, he wants revenge."

"I don't know if you're so right there," George said, his voice humorous as though trying to break the grim veil surrounding us. "I'd say he probably takes some pleasure in breaking people's skulls."

"Stop making jokes, this is serious," Harry snaps, and George falls silent. "Look, he's going to come after us. And if he really wants to, he'll find us. This run-fight-hide thing ends here. We need a better plan. We have to prepare for him. We have to decide what we're going to do. For the past two years, we've always known that he was out there looking for us, but I don't think any of us honestly believed that one day our lives were going to come to an end. Who does, until they're at the moment when they're facing their mortality? But now it's time for us to face it, because more likely than not, that moment is just around the corner, and our only chance of evading it is to strategize right now."

A dead silence follows in wake of this proclamation.

"Way to ruin the moment, Harry," Fred whispers, obviously intending to be funny, but his whole demeanor is grim, and I can see that Harry's words have buried themselves as deeply inside of him as they have inside of the rest of us.

"What can we do?" Katie asks quietly.

"I'd say we have three options," Harry says. "The first is to see if we can keep running and keep our lives for another month or so before he catches us. Maybe we can try to get out of the country, make it to someplace where he doesn't have such complete control. The second option is to fight. Go and battle it out. See who wins and who loses, take the fight to them for a change. Or our last option: throw in our hats, here and now. Give up. Sit and wait for him to come and find us."

Harry looks around at everyone, surveying their reactions. I feel the pressure and the tension that has been filling him now. He's right. I finally am free, only to find myself trapped in a situation where I will most surely die. None of us stand a chance. All of those options are simply paths of different lengths leading to one ultimate destiny: death.

A smooth voice breaks the silence. "Alastor, would you please take a seat? We won't bite, but if you keep pacing, someone may get irritated enough to do just that," Dumbledore suggests mildly.

Moody, who has been pacing and driving me to distraction, seems to have been jolted from a reverie. He growls, "Sure," and sits down, still some distance away.

Harry sighs and rubs his temple. I can see the fear and shadows in his eyes. Being the leader, it's his job to make his best friends choose from an array of unappealing options. Looking at him now, looking at _everything_ now, I am consumed by amazement at myself, at how I actually thought that we could go back to the way we were. Harry and I can never be the same people again, and our situation can never return to what it was. What foolish part of my mind ever constructed that illusion?

Harry has begun talking again, his voice void of emotion, his face slack and resigned. "I have no idea how I'm supposed to go about this. I'm asking you to vote on a life or death decision, but I don't know how else to handle it."

"Voting's fine, mate," says Fred consolingly. "It's a good, democratic way to handle things."

"Odd way to handle _this_, but don't worry about it," George adds. "We'll do it for you. Who's all for the '_let's_-_just_-_sit_-_here_-_and_-_let_-_You-Know-Who_-_come_-_kill_-_us'_ option? No one? Okay, moving on. What about the '_let's_-_go_-_be_-_martyrs_-_and_-_fight_-_him_-_for_-_about_-_ten_-_seconds_-_before_-_he_-_destroys_-_us'_ option?"

Now several people look confused. Alastor Moody's hand raises high into the air, along with Sirius's and Lupin's. Other than that, everyone else remains still. The looks on several people's faces imply that they'd been considering that very option before George worded it in such a blunt and frightening way.

"Three? Not bad, not bad. Better than zero, anyway. So, finally and predictably, who's all for the '_let's_-_run_-_away_-_and_-_try_-_to_-_cross_-_a_-_border-in-the-hopes-that-they-don't-kill-us-while-we-try'_ method?"

Practically everyone's hand goes up. Harry, George, Dumbledore, and I don't move, but it's clear what the general consensus is.

"Well, that's pretty obvious, mate," George says decidedly. "What's your take, Harry?"

Harry is staring at them all blankly. When he speaks, his voice is oddly hoarse, a voice belonging to a man who has resigned himself to the worst. "I think it's a stupid decision, honestly," he states. "Running away is doing no more than prolonging the inevitable. It's not going to do any good. More fear, more constantly living on the edge, knowing deep down we're never going anywhere, but never wanting to admit it. That's what we're in for with this decision. I, for one, am sick of living this way. Based on that, does anyone want to change their vote?"

No one moves.

"Well," says Ginny timidly a moment later, "if we were to cross a border to somewhere that hasn't been so completely taken over . . . maybe we could fight there. Gain more people, some land of our own. A resistance and a real stronghold. That would give us a chance."

Big _if_.

Harry sighs again. "I guess so. Fine then. I'm overruled. We took a vote, that's the outcome. Looks like we're running. Professor Dumbledore, do you want to add anything?"

"I will say only that I agree with your take on it, Harry," Dumbledore says in a grim tone. "However, I am willing to give this plan a chance, so long as you all will give some other method a chance should this not work out and should we get the opportunity to change our course."

Translation: Give fighting a try should we live long enough to realize we've been stupid.

I agree with Harry and Dumbledore, but my word is worth nothing here, I know. I keep my mouth shut and listen.

** Harry **

I'm groaning inwardly. What are they thinking? Running holds nothing but disaster. True, fighting is almost sure to leave us in a bad place, but at least we're doing _something_. We're trying to accomplish something. We wouldn't be the first small army to win a big war. The most unlikely, probably, but there's always a chance. Yeah, Ginny's idea is a good one, but there's the ever-present, unspoken question of if we can get across a border and find a sanctuary before we're killed. It's too unlikely to consider. Death Eaters are everywhere. We can't go into towns, and the borders are magically guarded. You can't just Apparate out anymore. The Floo Network won't take you out of the United Kingdom. Even if we made it to the border, we'd have to go across at a designated checkpoint, all of which are guarded by Voldemort's followers. Why can't anyone else see that only death lies ahead for us on this route?

It's over, I realize more strongly than ever. It's something I've been coming to terms with since those hours in the building in Diagon Alley with Hermione. We stand no chance. I think I've known that, deep down, since we agreed on the plan to destroy the Sphere. Maybe even before. We were standing so close to an edge before, I think I knew that helping Hermione was going to tip us over. It's why I kissed her—because I care for her, and I knew, in the dark recesses of my mind, that I didn't have much longer. I wanted her to know how I felt before the end came.

Then the long, grueling hours of silence in the building. That was when I truly realized it. We never really stood a chance. We've never made progress toward our spoken goal of defeating Voldemort. We've just survived, hoping and praying for one more day. But that kind of existence can't last for long, a life of borrowed time. Sooner or later you have to pay the debt.

What bothers me even more than our decision to run is the fact that I know that it doesn't matter which option we choose. It's all going to lead to the same thing. Maybe I want to fight because I can't take the constant question of when that time will come anymore. I just want it to be over with. Nothing beyond this life could be as bad as here and now.

"Fine, then," I sigh, rising to my feet. "Decided. At first light, we run. Better start packing, we've only got a few hours —"

I break off suddenly, as a searing pain rips through my skull. I fall to my knees and hardly even notice the shattering pain as they hit the wooden floor sharply. I clench my teeth tightly. I want to scream from the agony, but I can't even seem to do that, as if my vocal cords are locked along with my jaw. My head feels like someone is tearing it apart at the seams, ripping it slowly, torturously.

And then comes the laughter. High-pitched, cold, and the single most awful sound ever to be heard by human ears, it resonates through my mind, almost as agonizing as the pain in my head. Suddenly, with awful and certain understanding, even through the pain, I know: All this time spent planning has been wasted. Running, fighting, the battle of the decision—all a waste, all irrelevant. All because of one horrible and mind-numbing fact coming to me in an instant of perfect clarity:

It's already too late.


	14. One Last Stand

13

One Last Stand

"_Can't run, can't hide_

_There's no way out_

_The sun will rise and it's about time_

_For the reckoning."_

_--Boomkat_

The pain is fading now, the cold laughter dissipating with it. I struggle to my feet; through my veins pumps a delirious mixture of chilled blood and adrenaline. Everyone surrounds me, asking questions, begging to know what happened, why I had collapsed. Hermione's hand is on my shoulder. She says nothing, but looks at me with great concern. I have no time for their pointless inquiries—our lives are all on the line.

Voldemort is coming. He's almost here. I know this as clearly as if I'd been told, and yet it makes no sense as to why I should be so certain. How could I, from laughter? But logical or not, I trust it, and my instinct is all I have to go on.

"Get out!" I cry hoarsely, silencing them all.

"Harry," Sirius begins worriedly, moving toward me. I step back, shaking my head, and he stops. He's frowning and looks as though he fears for my sanity.

"Do as I say!" I yell, well aware of the wild, unreasonable tone to my voice. "He's coming, don't you understand? Voldemort is coming! Forget our plans, forget everything! They're worthless, because he's _here_, _now_!"

Another silence. My frustration is enough to make me scream. What is wrong with them? Why can't they understand? Why don't they just listen to me instead of standing here like deer in the headlights? Fear is written on every face now, but no one seems to believe me enough to do anything.

Sirius looks as though he is going to try to quiet me again—and if he had, I can't say what I'd have done—but Dumbledore holds up a hand. His expression is grim as he locks his eyes with mine. I can see he believes and understands me. I see the wisdom of a century in his tired, bleak, blue eyes, and it's with that wisdom that he can know that what I speak is the truth. He gives a slight nod. "Listen to him," he orders in his mild manner.

"Go, now!" I repeat, almost panicking. "We have no time to talk! We voted to run and if we want to live long enough to see the dawn, we have to do it _now_. Run and hide in the woods. Separate, but stay with at least one or two of the others. If you hear three owl hoots, it's me, or another group. Respond with two hoots to help the other group find you. Do _not_ fight any enemy unless you have no choice. Now get out!"

My word combined with Dumbledore's seems to have done the trick. I watch, my heart pounding and my throat tight, as my friends snap from their stupor and practically trample each other attempting to get out the door. The most unnerving thing of it all is the utter silence with which they do it. In Muggle movies and books, such scenes always take place with everyone screaming their heads off, or at least talking hysterically. But here, not a word is spoken. They're all terrified, but it is a silent and eerie terror with which they flee.

I stand back and catch Fred's arm as he's trying to make is way through the mob. "Where's Ron?" I demand.

"Uh . . . in the back room . . ." Fred says, realizing it as though for the first time, his eyes widening. He turns and looks as though he is about to run back down the hall, but I stop him.

I give a sharp shake of the head. "No, I'll do it," I say firmly. "Get out now."

Fred, after a moment's hesitation, complies with a nod and runs out the door and into the blackness of the snowstorm beyond. I see Dumbledore and Sirius have hung back with me.

I turn to face them and take a deep breath, trying to remain calm. "Professor," I say to Dumbledore with as much respect as I can muster through my fear, "go with them, if you will. Try to keep them organized. They'll listen to you, and things are going to get messy out there. They'll need order if they've got any chance. I've got to get Ron."

Dumbledore nods slowly. "Do as you must, Harry. I trust you as I trust no other. But be careful," he intones, placing a hand on my shoulder briefly, a sign of his trust. He looks to Sirius and says firmly, "He will be fine. Come."

Sirius looks at me. Nothing is spoken, but no words are needed. I can see everything he'd say to me if time allowed—everything a person would say to their loved one when they fear the end has come at last. The moment lasts for an eternity and a for fraction of an instant at the same time, and then our eye contact is broken as Dumbledore pulls him out the door.

I begin to run toward the hall when a hand on my arm halts me. I spin, half expecting a Death Eater to be waiting, but instead I see only Hermione, standing there awkwardly.

"What are you doing?" I demand. "Get out while you can!"

"No," she says, her voice calm to contrast her pale face and frightened eyes. "Harry, I'm not leaving you."

"Hermione, don't be foolish," I snap. "I'm not letting you die here. Please, get out!"

She shakes her head. "You've never left me," she argues firmly. "Not once. You've stuck beside me no matter what, and I'm not about to run away from you because things are getting rough. I'm staying by your side to the end, be that end good or bad. And there's nothing you can do to keep me away."

I feel a moment of deep affection for her, and for an instant all I want to do is kiss her again. But my panic, and the distant, fading footsteps of my fleeing comrades keeps me from showing it. I nod bluntly. "All right," I sigh. "Just stay behind me."

We make it down the hall to where the rooms are. The door to the room Ron and I share is locked, much to my irritation. I let out a growl of frustration. My situation is moving at far too fast a pace, while I am moving at far too slow of one. I understand that we have precious little time left, and too much of our time has been spent talking. It seems as though we have so much less than we actually do, and my urgency grows with each passing instant. With each minute, I feel more and more likely to explode from panic.

I pound on the door. "Ron, open up!" I yell.

"Harry, go away," comes a bleary, muffled voice. "I don't want to discuss tactics tonight, okay?"

"He's here!" I yell back, not even bothering to stop pounding, just grateful to be moving somehow. "Voldemort is here, and we have to get out! Open up!"

Two seconds later I can hear him fumbling with the lock. The door is opened and he stands staring at me, his eyes wide, his face pale and disbelieving. "What _is_ this?" he demands, not with hostility, but with fright.

I push him out of the doorway and Hermione and I rush in. I turn and slam the door quickly behind me, locking it with my wand in case the Death Eaters arrive while we're still in here. The darkness is so deep that I can barely see, and I light my wand. I nod toward the window. "Get out!" I command. "Wait for me just below the sill! Grab your wand if you don't have it and be ready for Death Eaters!"

Ron nods, looking dazed. I doubt that his mind has even fully comprehended what I'm saying. He goes to the window and slides out of it. I use up precious seconds to run to the table next to my bed and grab a pair of my pants. I throw them to Hermione and she catches them, looking at me with confusion.

"I have a feeling we're going to be outside for a while," I say bluntly. "You'll never make it in a skirt. Change and come out. We'll be waiting."

"No, Harry, don't wait!" she argues. "Just run. I'll catch up."

"Hermione, you promised you wouldn't leave my side," I say, standing next to the window. "Well the same goes for me. We're in this together. So just do it!"

With that, I catapult myself over the windowsill, landing about three feet to the side of where Ron is kneeling. I extinguish my wand, well aware that letting the light penetrate the darkness would be as good as sending out a beacon to summon death. The storm of earlier is still howling and whooping all around me. Even with warm clothes and a jacket, the wind is tearing through me. I don't regret having Hermione change—had she not, she'd have made it little more than a quarter of a mile before collapsing of hypothermia. Been there, done that, really don't need a re-enactment.

"Harry, what's happening?" Ron demands, his voice full of terror and disbelief.

"Voldemort is here. He's here, and it's over," I reply hoarsely, well aware that I must sound optimistic enough to make anyone want to keep fighting. "It's all over."

"So that's it?" he whispers, his voice so low I can hardly hear him over the wind. "We're going to die here tonight?"

Guilt twists my stomach. What kind of leader am I, making my friends feel as though all hope has gone? "No, of course not," I lie in a half-hearted attempt to reassure him of something I don't even believe myself. "Don't listen to me, I'm just being pessimistic. We'll make it out, don't worry."

My voice is not even convincing to _me_, and I certainly don't expect Ron to believe it.

Hermione's soft voice drifts down from directly above where I'm crouching. "I'm coming down now," she warns.

Ron and I stand and move out of the way. I can hear a thud as Hermione hits the snow a moment later.

"Harry, where are you?" she asks worriedly, clearly as blinded by the darkness as I am.

I cover the tip of my wand with my shirt and whisper, "_Lumos_!" A light surrounds us, dimmed somewhat by the cloth over it. I'm tense, having even this little illumination. I want nothing more than to put it out immediately, but can't bring myself to do it, seeing the slightly relieved looks on my friends' faces.

"Now what?" Hermione asks, her voice taut.

A good question. "I guess we should do what I told everyone else to do—hide in the woods," I say. I try to make it sound firm, like an order should, but it comes out sounding more like a question.

"Yeah . . . yeah, okay," Ron mutters. His face is still very pale and I can see that he is really starting to feel the sense of doom that has been upon me for hours. He isn't handling it much better than I did, either, and he's being forced to come to terms with it much faster.

"Hermione, you have any better ideas?" I ask quietly.

She holds up a hand, her face turned in the other direction. Her eyes are narrowed and if she were a dog on the hunt, I feel sure that her ears would have been pointed slightly forward in intense focus. "Shh," she whispers.

Ron and I obediently fall silent. While I must focus with all my might to hear over the roaring of the wind, after a few seconds, I hear the dull murmur of voices and the crunching of feet upon crusty snow. I know in my heart, just as I'd known earlier that Voldemort was coming, that those sounds are not being made by my friends.

"Damn," I whisper. "It's the Death Eaters!" I hurriedly extinguish my wand and pray it's not too late. My heart is racing again. "Grab hands," I instruct, no question in my voice now. "I don't want us to lose each other in this storm, and we can't risk the light. We head for the trees, now! Just keep running, doesn't matter where we're going as long as it's away from here."

I feel Hermione tentatively grasp my right hand, and after an instant, I ask, "Ready?"

They both respond quietly that they are, and I begin to pull them forward. The insanity of this entire situation is weighing on me. We're running through a forest in a blizzard, completely blinded by darkness, with Death Eaters roaming around us. If we survive to see the sun top the trees one more time, it will be a miracle.

Though when I'd imagined our escape, I'd pictured us running desperately, our retreat now is staggering and slow. We don't want to go too fast and run into a tree—or worse, a Death Eater.

Distantly, out of my peripheral vision, I can see the bobbing of wand lights: the Death Eaters, searching for us. My urge to hasten our retreat is magnified by a hundred and I begin to pull Hermione and Ron forward faster. I can hear their whispered pleas to slow down, but I don't heed them.

I soon find myself paying the price for my haste. I hear Ron cry out and suddenly I am being pulled to the snow alongside he and Hermione. I hit hard and feel the air explode out of my lungs.

"What happened?" I gasp after a moment.

"I tripped," Ron replies. "I told you to slow down! I can't see where I'm—"

"Be quiet!" Hermione hisses. "Don't move."

Once again, her hearing is keener than mine, and after a few instants, I can pick out a high-pitched voice that's colder than all the frigid wind around us: Voldemort's voice. I can hear only parts of what he's saying, depending on whether the wind is howling or at a lull.

". . . Escaped . . . hiding, probably . . . burn . . . can't come back . . . teach them . . ."

Though my mind is panicked, I try to put together the missing pieces of that bit of conversation; but the fear, the chill, and the screaming wind won't let me think at all. I start to slowly get to my knees. We have to get out of here before they come close enough to see us. They're already too close for comfort—with the light from their wands, I can see some of the mens' silhouettes. But just as I am trying, Hermione pulls me back down.

"Don't," she repeats.

"We can't stay here," I hiss. "They're going to see us!"

I don't hear her response, because in that instant, all sound—even the wind—is drowned out by an explosion of horrific proportions. The chill of the night is suddenly gone and all around me is a wave of nearly unbearable heat. Crimson light fills the black world that surrounded me moments ago. In an odd sort of stupor, I feel myself being picked up from the ground and thrown several feet. I land hard on my back. My head strikes the ground upon impact—just my luck I had to get a section of the ground that wasn't buried by six feet of snow—and my vision swims.

Slowly, as my eyes clear, I use my arms to push myself up into an almost-sitting position. The sight I'm confronted with is shocking. Our house, our hideout of many months, is up in flames. Yellow, orange, and red tongues of flame lick at the darkness as they devour our home, our belongings, all of our few remaining possessions. All gone in that greedy inferno.

I can't take my eyes away from it. It's almost hypnotic. I notice dimly that the lenses of my glasses are wet with snow, but don't make a motion to wipe them off. He's taken everything, I realize. Our families, our friends, our lives, and now the few things we've managed to accumulate—Voldemort has taken them. There's nothing left. We're the only things he has yet to destroy. And I know with a horrible, sinking sickness that if I hadn't heard his laughter, we'd all have been inside there right now, burning to ashes along with our things.

I finally manage to pull my eyes away from it, and look around for Ron and Hermione. The light of the fire has illuminated much of the surroundings—enough to see at least. While that's a relief in one sense, it's terrifying in another. Right now the Death Eaters are too busy watching the destruction they've caused to notice their surroundings, but sooner or later, someone's going to spot us.

Ron is laying some distance off to the side of me. He's half buried in a deep snowbank and his eyes are fixed on the flames. I push myself to my feet, feeling my headache increase sharply as I stand. I sway on my feet, an array of black dots swarming up before my eyes and blocking my vision. After a moment they recede, and I run quickly to where Ron is trying to climb out of the snowdrift.

I help him pull himself out wordlessly. His eyes never leave the flames.

"He's taken everything, Harry," he whispers in shock mingled with anger. "Every last bloody thing."

"Not yet, he hasn't," I reply. "He doesn't have us." What I don't say aloud is my uncertainty about how long that will remain true. "Where's Hermione?"

He shakes his head a little, as though trying to clear it, and looks around. "I . . . I dunno," he murmurs.

I look around myself wildly. She can't have been seen, I think desperately. As most wild, panicked thoughts turn out, I'm wrong. She's lying about ten feet away, at the base of a tree. She's motionless, still laying on the ground. She must have hit the tree when the explosion threw her. She's likely unconscious.

I pull Ron over to where she lays. I'm grateful to see that it's further back into the woods, for the Death Eaters are beginning to move around now, and we haven't much time left before Voldemort sends them to scour the woods for us, as he inevitably will.

I kneel by her side and feel for a pulse at her neck. It's there, beating strong. I pull out my wand and whisper, "_Ennervate_!"

Hermione's eyes begin to flutter open and she groans quietly. She shifts over so that she's on her back and looks up at Ron and I. Her eyes widen. "What . . . ?" she asks in confusion.

"Sit up," I say gently, helping her do just that. Her eyes widen as she sees the flames overtaking the house beyond. The roof has collapsed and the fire's greedy teeth are now chewing along the walls like millions of starved termites. "Are you okay?"

She nods slowly, still staring. "Oh, Merlin," she whispers. "Harry, this all my fault."

"Stop saying that," I growl. "This would have happened eventually anyway. He was always coming for us, and we always knew he'd find us one day—sooner, later, what does it matter in the long run? Now stand up and let's get going before they start coming after us."

She pushes herself to her feet, ignoring the hand I hold out to help her. I steady her when she looks as though she's about to topple over. I hope she didn't hit her head too hard.

"You ready?" I ask, and she nods. I look to Ron and he does the same. I am struck by how unexpected it is, the three of us together again in a life or death situation, like so many times before. But looking back on it now, in those previous situations I was never so dead sure that we didn't stand a chance.

We begin to tear away through the woods, moving at a much faster pace and using the light of the flames to see. After a while, though, the light fades away into blackness, and we are forced to slow down. I decide to risk lighting my wand and pray that if any Death Eater spots it, they'll assume it's another of their own. It's just too slow of progress, inching along in the dark.

Once we've run until we cannot take another step, I agree to let us stop for a minute. My throat is raw and parched from the chill of the air, and I am trembling from the cold. I put my hand over the tip of my wand in an effort to keep us hidden during our momentary break.

"What are we doing?" Hermione asks. "Where are we going?"

"Anywhere, just away from there," I reply.

"Shouldn't we call for the others, though?" she persists. "The owl call, remember? It won't do us any good to be separated from everyone."

I realize she's right. I had forgotten that signal entirely. I nod, though I know she can't see me, and try to muster up enough air to make an owl hoot that sounds half decent. I do it three times, and wait. Of course, there is no answer. Who knows where everyone is? They're all in groups, hiding—probably more to the east, more toward the direction of where the Death Eaters are looking.

"Let's keep going," I command. "We're heading east."

"That's toward them, though," Ron argues.

"I know," I respond. "But that's where the others are likely hiding. We need to get everyone together before we can make a move."

I know I'm taking a risk, leading my friends back to the Death Eaters, but for the life of me, I cannot see what other options I have to choose from. Abandon the others and run off on our own, or risk our lives to find them. Yeah, great options.

So we begin our treacherous trek eastward, plunging through the many feet of snow, Ron and Hermione following in my wake. As I walk, keeping my wand's light dimmed by my jacket's fabric, I wonder about Ron and Hermione's take on all this. Not just my decision to move us east, but everything that's happened in . . . how many days has it been? Or is it years? It sure feels like the latter. I know Ron is beginning to come to terms with just how unlikely our survival is, and I can sense that his silence now is similar to mine during the hours back in Diagon Alley. It makes me edgy, having him in such a state and knowing that our lives depend on us working as a team. I've been through what he's going through now, and I know that during those hours of silence, I would not have wanted someone putting their life on my shoulders. It's still a shock to me. But at least I had a few hours to just sit and think and come to terms with it. Ron is being forced to accept it on the run.

I have no idea of how Hermione feels, and that worries me in a way. We've shared so much recently, taken so many risks and still made it out alive, that maybe I'm getting used to having that unity. Amazing how two years of solitude and of needing no one can change so entirely in just a few days of having a friend by your side.

I'm tense, prepared for an ambush or sudden encounter with the Death Eaters, but never does the silence or stillness of our surroundings break. A nagging and discomforting fear is gnawing relentlessly at the back of my mind, increasing in its intensity with every step I take: _It's_ _too_ _quiet_ _and_ _too_ _still_. Don't get me wrong, I have no desire to run into Voldemort or his minions, but now I find myself thinking that perhaps I'd be relieved if that did occur. It's scary to have your enemy in your sights, but it's a lot scarier when you have no idea where they are or what they're doing.

The only real sound I hear—besides the ones we are making ourselves—is the distant crackling of the blaze that is consuming our home. My nerves are steeled and my desire to destroy Voldemort is sealed with this thought. I've put up with a lot—I've had to to survive. But there are some things I don't forgive, and all the things he's done to Hermione, my parents, my friends, Hogwarts, and now our home, have put me so far past the point of forgiveness that I couldn't see it on a distant horizon with a pair of binoculars.

Though I've been giving the owl call periodically, I've yet to get any answer. This is another way in which the silence disturbs me. Could the Death Eaters have perhaps captured them, and left? Is that why everything has gone so still? It's unlikely—Voldemort would want Hermione and myself above all others, and I can't imagine him leaving without us—but it's still unnervingly possible.

I stop and hoot again, louder than I've dared so far. All I want is some confirmation that my friends aren't dead or captured. I beg desperately for it, and for once, my prayer is answered in the form of two distant, but distinctly unnatural hoots.

I run in the direction from which the noise originated, Ron and Hermione following me. I hoot three times again, and this time the reply is much closer.

I hear Ron growl vaguely behind me. "Oh, enough of this bloody owl calling! Who's there and where are you?"

"Over here, little brother!" comes a soft voice to my left. I aim my dim wand light at a bush about fifteen feet away where Fred is hiding.

We trudge through the snow, relieved. When we reach the bush, we see Fred, George, and Ginny all crouched behind it. Ginny stands and runs to hug Ron immediately. He embraces his little sister with a lot more feeling than usual, I observe. Apparently my worries for their survival were not lost on him.

"I'm all right, Ginny," he assures her quietly. "You?"

"I am now," she says, relief clear in her voice.

"Yeah, good to see you all again," Fred agrees, and I can see in his eyes as he looks at me that he'd not been holding out much hope for our survival.

I don't waste time with the greetings. "Where's Dumbledore?" I ask. "We need to get everyone together, and without him, that's hopeless."

George looks at me. "Everyone's hidden around here; there's a good bet he is, too. But I've got to tell you, Harry, finding everyone doesn't bother me as much as the quiet does."

So I'm not the only one who's noticed. "I know," I agree, not elaborating further. Stating my fears will do no more than scare us all more. But whether I say it aloud or not, I do believe deep in my heart that something is wrong. I don't know what, or why Voldemort is holding back, but we should have run into, or seen, or heard some sign of the Death Eaters by now. And yet there is nothing. More is going on than meets the eye. We should feel on top, in a way; we've evaded them, and we're gathering. We've survived. But I fear that's exactly what they want us to think.

With our group expanded from three to six, we set out again. We are cautious, not that I see the point in it anymore. I have a horrible, sinking feeling that we're being quiet and wary for nothing. That Voldemort knows exactly where we are and is simply biding his time, waiting for some moment which he'll at last deem correct. We're like ants under the glare of the sun through a magnifying glass. We run about, trying to maintain order and get out; and all the while some kid is watching above, controlling everything, waiting until he tires of our running and decides to finally get the frying started.

It takes a little over twenty minutes—more than enough time to confirm my fears with not so much as a distant voice from a Death Eater—to round up everyone. As Fred and George had said, everyone was hidden relatively close to one another. Dumbledore, Sirius, and Lupin are the last ones we find.

Now we are huddled in a circle, deep in the trees, my wand giving us the light we need. All of us are shivering from the cold. The blizzard has, thankfully, lessened to a simple snowfall. Dumbledore stands directly across from me, Sirius and Lupin at his sides. Hermione is pressed close against me, attempting to find some warmth in this world of bitter chill. Cautiously, still remembering her reaction when I'd kissed her—something I'm beginning to think I'm never going to get a chance to really talk with her about—I put my arm around her.

"Something's wrong about all of this," Moody is growling, his grotesque eye spinning so fast it's a blur. "I don't trust it."

"Nor do I, Alastor," Dumbledore confirms. He looks at me. "And neither does Harry."

I have not said a word to him about my suspicions, but as it often is with Dumbledore, I don't need to. He knows my emotions as well as I do, can read them from my face, my eyes, my posture when I don't even realize I'm relaying anything. Sometimes that can be a bad thing, but right now, I'm relieved that I need not take the time to explain.

"What do we do now? He's destroyed everything, we can't go back," Neville whispers, sounding as lost and frightened as a small child separated from his mother.

"Well, you know what they say," George says, trying to be upbeat, but his own voice can't even hold up the façade of folly. "If you can't go back, you have to go forward."

"Are we still going to try to make it to a border?" Ginny asks.

I shake my head before anyone can say anything. Dumbledore is looking to me expectantly. "No. We might have had a chance before, but we would have needed supplies, money, food, clothes. All those things have been destroyed now. Some of us have even lost our wands in the fire. We wouldn't make it for two days as we are." I close my eyes for a moment, considering how to word my next decision so that everyone does not immediately oppose me, as I feel they most likely will. "We only have one option left, unless anyone thinks it's a good idea to sit here and freeze to death while waiting for the Death Eaters to come trooping down on us. We have to fight."

Much to my surprise, only silence resounds. No one is yelling at me, no one is arguing. Just the dead, ringing silence that snow always brings when it falls, a silence that is deeper than that of any other.

"Fight . . . _him_?" Neville finally asks in a quaking voice.

"Yes," I say, keeping my voice firm, trying to instill some confidence in my companions.

"What do you want us to do?" Katie demands, sounding rattled. "We can't beat him. There are fourteen of us, and there are hundreds of Death Eaters, plus You-Know-Who himself. We don't even have fourteen wands! Harry, you're asking us to commit suicide."

The silence is deeper than ever as I realize she has spoken aloud the fact I'd been trying to keep hidden from everyone by a shield of bravado and courage. Now that it's out in the open, I can no longer deny it. "Maybe," I admit. "I know we can't win. I know we're outnumbered, unequipped, and unprepared. We're pathetic in comparison to them. There's a good chance he'll kill us, Katie, yes, but whether we fight him or not doesn't change that. He'll kill us if we stay here, and he'll kill us if we fight him. We'll die either way. The only difference is that if we try to run, or wait here, he'll come upon us without our knowledge, and we'll be on the defense; but if we instigate it, it's on our terms. We've been avoiding death for almost two years now, and sooner or later we all had to know that death was going to outsmart us. That's finally happened, and it's all coming down to here and now. And now we have the option of going out like the cowards we've been, or fighting to our deaths, showing courage, being the Gryffindors we're alleged to be. Maybe we can cause some damage to them before they finish us off. If we can even take out one of their men we'll have done something, something more than sit here and wait for the end. Death is our only option, it's true, but rather than letting that fact weigh you down and make you feel irrelevant, I'd like to see you manipulate it, take advantage of it, let it give you the strength to rise up and do something so great that we'll always be remembered as the group that made a difference. Let's make some use out of our last hours."

I know that if there was anyone left who hadn't yet begun to get very in touch with their mortality, I've just made them join the rest of us who have. Dumbledore is watching me, a kind of sad, resigned pride in his eyes. I must say myself that for a pep speech that came out of nowhere when I was feeling more depressed than ever before, it was quite strong.

Finally, after such a long silence that I fear I've put them to sleep, Ron pipes up from beside me, "So what's the plan?" His voice is toneless, and I can see the resignation in his eyes, resignation to the fate that I've just spoon-fed them all. But from these few words, I know that he's with me in this.

"Yeah, we're listening," Hermione whispers. I still have my arm around her shoulders, and I look down at her. She gives me a small, sad smile, and I return it briefly, a tiny sign of appreciation for her support. Though I know that my own words are true—that Voldemort will kill us either way—it doesn't make it any easier to live with the knowledge that in all likelihood, I'm leading my friends to slaughter.

"Look," I begin, "if anyone objects to my plan of fighting, that's all right. We can break up if we have to—"

Ginny cuts me off. "No, Harry. We'll follow you, and only you. Some of us may not want to face it, but I think all of us know what you just said is true. And I think that we all have pretty much given up the idea of running. You're our leader, and if you're going to do this, then none of us are going to leave your side." Ginny looks around, almost warningly. "Does anyone want to argue with that?"

This time the silence is shorter, and easier to interpret. They are going to stand by me. I can't say that makes me feel any better or any worse. It goes the same distance in both ways. None of them look happy—most look terrified, or on the verge of tears—but none are backing away.

"A-All right," I say, a little started at the overwhelming support. "So . . . I guess that if we are going to have this battle, we need to pick a battleground. We may not have much, but we have that advantage. So we need to move fast, before they find us and initiate this thing. I think that we should go to Hogwarts."

"But that's where they've set up headquarters!" Angelina protests. "That would give them the advantage."

"Maybe," I agree. "But equally, maybe not. They sure as hell won't be expecting it, which is an advantage. Besides, it all started there, two years ago, or seven years ago, however you want to look at it. It all comes down to Hogwarts. It's the center of everything. It's where this began, and I'd like it to be where it ends. The way I see it, if we fight somewhere else, we're going to die leaving Hogwarts to be Puerclades forever. Hermione knows how awful that is, and I have some idea. But if we die on those grounds, fighting for it, then a piece of it will always be Hogwarts."

I see some people nodding. Hermione gives me a wider smile this time, and I can see I've gotten through to them. I now look to Dumbledore. I know that in his eyes, the final decision will rest with me, but I need his backing in this. "Professor?" I ask tentatively. "What's your take?"

"I shall follow your decisions, Harry, whatever they may be. But I think that you are correct on both your decisions here tonight, if that is of any aid," Dumbledore says.

It's of more aid than he can possibly know. The fact that he thinks I'm making the right choices, speaking from a century of wisdom as compared to my seventeen years, is a great help. "What do you think we should do now, sir?" I ask.

His answer is the one I had expected. "That is your choice, Harry. However, I must suggest that perhaps it would be easier to fight if we were each equipped with a wand? We have extras at the headquarters of the Order. We can go there briefly if you wish."

I nod. "Yes, that's best. But I don't want any of your people who are there to come along, or feel like they're obligated to. It's best if they stay free. They're not at risk right now, and if this battle takes out the rest of us, it will be good to have some people left to fight."

I am amazed at how casually I'm speaking of our imminent deaths, as though what's coming is no more than a forecasted storm. It's unnerving, how easily I'm continuing. Am I in some kind of denial, or am I just far too good at accepting the hard things?

Dumbledore gives a small nod. "Of course. But some of them will want to fight, no doubt. They may insist upon it."

I bite my lip in consideration. Finally, I say, "Well, we'll figure it out when we get there."

"Why can't we stay there, with you?" asks George. "I mean, I know the whole idea of letting the Dark Lord massacre us is heaps of fun, but it seems a shame not to utilize the second hideout."

Dumbledore looks to him sadly. "It will not work, Mr. Weasley. Don't think I haven't considered it. We have special wards that do not allow for a greater number of people than that which comprises my forces. I can take you there and keep you in a small holding room while I gather the supplies, but you will be allowed to stay there for no more than fifteen minutes before you are automatically ejected. It is a safety precaution only the toughest of dark magicks could break through. I could reconfigure the wards, but it would take days of carefully undoing and redoing spells. It would be too late."

I can see the disappointment on the faces of those around me. It is clear that with George's words, they thought that they might actually have a way out, only to have it come crashing down on them.

"So how do we get there?" I ask tonelessly.

"Group Apparition," Dumbledore says simply. "It is a process that is maddeningly difficult, but I've mastered over time. Simply do as I instruct, and we shall be at the headquarters in a matter of moments.

"We first need to adjoin hands. Everyone's hands must be linked. If someone neglects to touch another, the entire process will be thrown off, with dire consequences."

I remove my arm from around Hermione and shift a bit farther away to allow room for our hands to take hold of one another.

"All right," Dumbledore continues . "Now, Sirius, Remus, Alastor, please envision headquarters vividly. Everyone else, simply think strongly of the place you want to go to. Repeat 'Order of the Phoenix headquarters' over and over in your mind. I shall do the rest."

I think the words over and over in my mind, blanking out everything else, understanding from experience just how important complete concentration is to the process of Apparition, group or otherwise. But after a while of this, my mind begins to wander and I realize just how much time has passed. How long does group Apparition take?

"There seems to be something wrong," Dumbledore speaks up in a slightly concerned tone.

My eyes open, and I can see everyone shifting. Ron drops my hand; Hermione does not. "What's happening?" I ask, frowning.

"I'm not certain," Dumbledore begins, seeming deep in concentration, his brow furrowed, "but I do not think we did anything wrong in the process. No, I am almost dead certain that it is an error of admittance." Seeing the blank looks on most of our faces, he explains: "Someone here is blocked from allowance due to our security barriers."

Hermione shifts next to me and speaks up, her voice hesitant and slightly ashamed. "It's probably me," she says. "Your barriers probably still recognize me as a traitor."

It makes sense, but to my surprise, Dumbledore shakes his head. "No. Our security barriers aren't set up in such a way. Since you were always on our side as it is, they would let you through. Someone else is causing the interference."

"Not necessarily," Moody growls. His eye has finally stopped spinning, and is now settled on Hermione.

I bristle. "Hey, what are you saying?" I demand, growing defensive.

Moody's eye flicks to me for a moment before going back to her. He doesn't even bother answering me. He crosses the distance between himself and Hermione and stops in front of her. I can feel her take a slight, involuntary step backward. Moody pulls out his wand, and I leap between them.

"What do you think you're doing?" I yell.

"Move, Potter," he snaps. When I don't, he sighs in irritation. "I'm not going to hurt her. I'm running a test. It will cause no physical pain, and if it does, you can curse me if you bloody well like."

I see Dumbledore nod at me from behind Moody, and I put my trust in him. "Count on it," I mutter, stepping slightly to the side.

He points his wand at Hermione and says, "_Vestigo_ _Acclaro_!"

Hermione has no reaction, much to my relief. But after a few moments of nothing happening, she glows bright red for about five seconds before returning to normal. I stare, uncomprehending. Looks of horrified understanding cross the faces of Sirius, Lupin, and Dumbledore. Moody just looks grimly satisfied. No one else seems to understand.

"Yup," Moody says. "It's her."

"_What_ is her?" I demand. I am well aware of Ron watching all this stiffly from beside me.

Moody glances to Dumbledore. "You tell him," he growls before limping away to where he'd been standing.

Hermione and I look at each other, and I can see the fear on her face. Whatever is happening, I believe without a doubt that this isn't some last-minute betrayal.

Dumbledore sighs. "She's under a tracing charm."

My mind takes a few moments to process this, but Hermione immediately gasps. "Oh, God," she whispers. She looks completely horrified.

"Wait," I demand, still trying and failing to think. "A tracing charm? Like . . . what? What do you mean?"

"Voldemort is tracking her," Sirius explains. "It's how he found us so easily at the hideout, and why he's probably not coming for us now. He knows where we are. He's just biding his time—playing with us, I guess." He looks to Hermione, who is standing beside me, a look of horror on her face. "I don't believe she was aware she was under it."

"I . . . I . . ." Hermione says, seemingly unable to speak. "I'm sorry . . . Oh, Merlin, it's all my fault." She looks near tears.

"It's all right," I tell her gently. My eyes dare anyone to contradict my words. I'm surprised to see that with the exception of suspicion on the Weasley twins' faces and worry on those of Katie and Angelina, no one looks accusatory.

Dumbledore steps forward. "Hermione, it's not your fault. Voldemort has tricked many of the greatest wizards, and often times the simplest tricks are the hardest to outwit. Don't blame yourself for this."

She does not move. "If I'd have thought . . . of course he would, it would make sense, so why didn't I see this coming?" she mutters. "I told you you shouldn't have brought me here," she sighs miserably.

"I don't regret it," I tell her. "Stop making it sound as though I should. How could you have known?"

She shrugs, and silence falls again.

"Can't you take it off her?" I ask.

Moody shakes his head. "Curse was personalized. The caster probably channeled the Dark magic in the cover curse to make it that way. Only the wand that put it on her can take it off."

Dumbledore nods. "Thank you, Alastor." He looks around. "It does not seem as though we can take you along, Hermione. So Harry, stay with her here. I will take the others; we shall go to the Order, gather wands, and return. We shan't be more than ten minutes, and should you be found . . . fight as best you can."

Oh, the words that inspire such optimism. "All right," I agree. "But make sure no one comes along unless they really want to. How many people are there?"

"Eighteen," Dumbledore responds. "Not including myself, Sirius, Alastor, or Remus."

I nod. "Okay. Make sure at least nine of them stay. We'll need a team remaining. And . . . make sure to appoint a leader. Someone I trust. I want to know for certain that they'll be left with someone who can continue the fight and make a real difference."

"The only person there that you know is Sibyll Trelawny. And Hermione should know Valerie Vector, the old Arithmancy teacher. Sibyll isn't high on your list of most trusted people, I'm sure," Dumbledore says.

I am startled to hear that Trelawny has survived, but I shake it quickly. "No, not her," I say very firmly. If I leave the Order in her hands, they'll be doomed to failure—or at the very least, doomed to a future of being told repeatedly that they're doomed to failure. "Who else, then?"

Dumbledore coughs slightly, making me look to him. As soon as he sees he's got my attention, he begins, "If I may? Perhaps it does not need to be someone back there." He looks to where Sirius, Lupin, and Moody stand. "Perhaps someone that is here?"

I consider it and realize there's no reason that wouldn't work. I look to Sirius and raise an eyebrow. He sees me and shakes his head vigorously.

"No, Harry," Sirius says. "If you're doing this, I'm going to be by your side. I promised Lily and James I'd take care of you!"

"And coming with me tonight won't be doing that," I reply. "All that will be doing is getting us both killed, which is pointless. I know that you want to avenge my father's death. The best way to do that is not by coming tonight. It's better for you to stay here, and keep fighting. Professor Lupin could do it, but . . . I'd just rather it be you."

"I must agree, Sirius," Lupin adds, looking at his friend.

"As must I," says Dumbledore.

Sirius is staring at me, his eyes flicking over to Dumbledore and Lupin periodically. "Harry . . ." he begins, trailing off. He sighs and shakes his head, as though trying to clear his thoughts. "I can't let you do this alone," he insists. "Remus will do a perfectly good job of leading them. Or even Dumbledore!"

"Not I," Dumbledore says, with a slight shake of his head. "Oh, no, my boy, not I. For many years I've expected tonight's stand, and my old heart will never rest at ease if I do not partake in it. It is the burden of a younger soul to bear, carrying on the Order."

"Sirius, I _want_ you to let me do this alone," I say. "Right now, I'm trying to deal with the fact that I'm leading all the people I care about to near-certain death at the hands of a maniac. I'm carrying a huge weight on my shoulders. The fact that you aren't among those I'm leading, that you've still got a chance to live and to fight . . . it will lessen that weight by more than you can imagine. Please, help make this easier. If you want to look out for me, to fulfill my parents' wishes, then do this. Don't make me go to my grave with more guilt than I already have. Please." My words are full of truth and I say them as strongly as I can.

Sirius is watching me, looking torn and conflicted. "Are you sure? You aren't just saying that?" he asks, and I can tell he is weakening.

"Yes, I'm sure," I say.

He looks to Dumbledore and Lupin questioningly before sighing and saying, "All right, then. If it's what's best for you . . . I'll do it."

Sirius comes over and grabs me into a tight hug. I hug him back, feeling tears welling in my eyes as the mutual understanding passes through each of us—this is the last time we will see each other. This makes it all real to me as nothing else has. Not to say that I've thought this has all been a dream—no, I've understood exactly what we're off to do. But now the real pain of it is beginning.

"You've done great things, Harry," Sirius is telling me, his voice muffled and gruff from an attempt to fight back tears. "Tonight is no exception. You're one of the bravest men I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. And I want you to know, from someone who knew James Potter better than anyone, that he'd have been extremely proud of you. The same goes for Lily, and for me. I love you, kid." He breaks away from me, tears running down his face.

"Thanks," I say, a tear leaking out of my eye, as well. "For everything."

He nods and looks like he wants to say something, but breaks off, probably to conceal a sob. He turns and walks back to the other side of the circle. "Dumbledore, let's go," he orders gruffly.

I stare at him, feeling the loss already. I study each bit of him, from his wild black hair, to his pale and slightly gaunt face, to his deep-set eyes which still hold within them the shadows of his years in Azkaban. I try to engrave a picture of him in my mind. I feel Hermione's hand on my arm and I look down at her. She still looks ashamed, and she spreads that feeling to me when I realize I've temporarily forgotten all about the revelation of a few moments ago. She pulls me back a few steps so that the circle can close again without us. After a few moments during which I stare at Sirius from outside the circle, all of them vanish in one swift, silent motion, leaving Hermione and I quite alone in the middle of the dark, frigid, winter forest.

"Goodbye, Sirius," I whisper, letting the lonely words fall on the deaf ears of the trees and fade away into the blackness.

Hermione rests her head on my shoulder. She isn't tall enough for it to be lying flat on the top, so instead it's just sort of rested vertically on the side. I look down at her, another tear falling.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asks me.

I nod, my throat constricted. "Yeah. I'm just glad he's safe." I look at her. "What about you? Are you okay?"

She shrugs slightly, not looking at me, her feet shifting the snow around her. "I feel awful," she murmurs. "I'm supposed to be the brilliant one. I'm Hermione Granger, the know-it-all, the mental library of books and tactics and spells, and I couldn't even consider the possibility that they'd try something like this. Lucius must have done it earlier in his office. If they'd had it on me before, they would have tracked me sooner. A skilled wizard can embed a simpler spell such as a Tracker in a different, more powerful curse so both hit at the same time. Lucius has the skill to do it. He probably placed it within one of his blasted Cruciatus curses, just in case something happened and I should get away."

I shake my head a little. "You were under a lot of stress when we were in his office, and afterward. Anyone who blames you for not being smart enough to see something that most people without telepathy couldn't have caught isn't worth considering."

"I guess there's nothing to do about it now. It's over and done," Hermione says, but I know she's saying this to end the conversation. She still feels guilty.

We're quiet for a while in the chilly darkness. We cannot see one another very well from the dim light of my wand. Finally, she speaks again.

"He was right, you know," she whispers.

"About what?" I ask, my eyes still fixed upon the spot where Sirius had stood moments before.

"About you being one of the bravest men," she says. "Everything you've done—for me and for your cause, and what you're doing tonight—proves just how much you deserve the title of a Gryffindor. And he was right about your parents being proud of you. I don't see how anyone wouldn't be." She sighs, shifting a bit. "I wish I could say the same for me about someone . . . about anyone."

"Hey, don't start that," I say. "You deserve just as much respect as I do. You sacrificed everything to protect Ron and I. You suffered more than I can imagine just trying to keep that façade up. Sure, it didn't work out like you planned, but things don't always. If everything had worked out the way I had planned, we wouldn't be here tonight. Hell, as far as that goes, if my life had gone the way I'd planned, Voldemort wouldn't exist, all of our parents would be alive, nothing bad would have happened to you, and we'd all live in peace and harmony. Things never go the way you want them to. But you tried, just like I did, to keep things right, o protect the people you cared about. And again, it didn't work out. But you tried to _make_ it work out. And that's all that counts."

She shakes her head. "That doesn't mean I deserve respect. I still screwed up. I let Voldemort into Hogwarts and effectively allowed him to commit genocide and destroy the wizarding world. Now I'm responsible for the deaths of all of you, since I led him here. I can't even say my parents are proud of me—I got them killed, remember?" She looks down. "Sorry. You don't need this tonight."

"Good intentions, bad action plan," I sigh. "It's happened to me before. And there is someone who's proud of you: I am."

She stares at me in bewilderment. "For what?"

"For everything I just said and more. I care about you for the same reasons."

Our eyes are locked for a few instants, and then she looks away. She sighs and goes over to sit on a nearby rock. "I suppose we should talk about what happened earlier, right? Before Ron came? It's not a favorable topic of conversation, but our time is running short, and this is likely to be the last time we'll ever have together, just you and I. Might as well get the issues cleared up rather than take them with us to the grave." I shudder at the blunt way she puts it.

She looks at me again, and I wait for her to say something. After a long silence, she does. "I know I reacted oddly when you kissed me. I hope you didn't take that as a sign that I was angry with you for doing it. Did you?"

"Kind of," I admit, shifting awkwardly and wishing there was something I could sit down on as well.

Hermione shakes her head. "Well that's not it. I . . . I felt scared. The fact that you were kissing me was a clear sign that you cared about me. And the fact that I enjoyed it was a clear sign that I cared about you, too. Harry . . . I've hurt all the people I've cared about. My parents, my friends, you. I couldn't bear the thought that I was going to hurt you again. And then when I thought, '_hey_, _maybe_ _that_ _phase_ _of_ _my_ _life_ _is_ _over_,' I also thought that Voldemort was never going to let us be. I've grown so accustomed to living in misery and having everything that makes me happy taken away that I just knew that the same would happen again. I didn't think I could stand losing something else I loved."

I try hard to conceal the surprise I feel. I hadn't expected anything like this. "Oh," I say, knowing how lame it sounds, but I am unable to think of anything else.

She doesn't seem to notice as she continues. "But now, everything is coming to an end. We're going to die. So why not let it all out? He's already going to succeed in doing what I knew he would—taking us away from each other, leaving us alone and miserable again."

I shake my head vigorously. "No," I say firmly. She looks up at me, confused. "I _do_ care about you, Hermione. More than I can say. And yeah, we're going to die. But I promise you, here and now, that Voldemort will never take me away from you. I'll always be with you, no matter what happens. I swear it."

She watches me carefully for a few moments. When she speaks, her voice is heavy with resignation, but I wonder if I have heard a distant tint of hope. "I don't know how you intend to pull that off, Harry, but it sounds a lot nicer than saying we'll be separated for eternity. So why not take a walk on the optimist's side for once? I promise to stay by your side for as long as I can."

"We started it together, we'll end it together," I assure her.

She buries her head deep in my shoulder and embraces me. I don't say anything. I don't feel I need to. We pull apart, and I lean in to kiss her again, this time less self-consciously. The kiss is brief, but it lasts just long enough for me to feel brief joy at the fact that she does care for me the way I do for her; along with it though, is disappointment. We finally confront and realize these feelings on the eve of our deaths. How romantically ironic.

We are still kissing softly when a loud crack sounds from behind us, making us jump apart and pull out our wands. My heart has leaped into my throat and I am prepared for my final battle when I see that it is only my friends returning. I lower my wand, letting out a shaky sigh of a breath that I had been holding. I notice that the group is stronger by better than nine people. Sirius, of course, is absent. I'd half hoped that he would return, so I could see him one last time and prove that things aren't always as you expect. But it's better this way, I tell myself firmly.

Dumbledore steps forward. "The matters have been taken care of," he assures us. "Twelve of the eighteen people there wanted to help, but I only allowed ten to come. There are nine people left at headquarters now, including Sirius. Everyone is equipped with a wand." Dumbledore motions toward the new people, who have clustered together in a group. "These are my people. Many of them are Ministry officials, and old contacts of mine. Valerie Vector is among the group with Sirius, but Sibyll Trelawny is joining us tonight. Sibyll?"

Much to my displeasure, I see Professor Trelawny step forward from the crowd. She looks just the same as ever: cloaked in a crimson shawl, her hair done up in a bun, donning spectacles that magnify her eyes to a grotesque size.

"Professor," I greet her, with as much respect as I can muster. I'm not in the mood for pleasantries, and besides that, it's always been fairly difficult to even pretend to possess a smidgen of respect for Trelawny. Morbid and cruel though it may sound, I must express my disappointment in the fact that she survived rather than someone more worthy and more useful, like McGonagall. It's a true example of the fact that life is not fair.

She clasps her hands together before her face and inclines her head slightly in greeting. "Welcome, my children," she murmurs in her signature, mystically whimsical voice. "You may wonder what I am doing here; you most likely feel I would be more use to the group who remains. I see that as well. My Inner Eye could be of great use to them. However, I must follow what I see, and I did indeed observe myself coming here with all of you. And so I do."

I've had enough already. My patience is at zero. My mixed feelings about Hermione and I, the empty feeling in my chest from Sirius's departure, and the very thought of what we are about to do is taking its toll on me. I have a horrible, sinking feeling that time is running out, and my adrenaline is beginning to flow again, leaving me with a nauseaus desire to keel over and heave up the meal we just ate.

"Not to be rude or anything, but we don't have time for this. We have to get going. We're not safe here, Voldemort could pop up at any minute," I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral.

Dumbledore nods. "Of course," he agrees. "But before we set out, I must inquire as to whether or not Sibyll has any last minute predictions to bestow upon us about the nature of what awaits us beyond." That old twinkle of his is dancing once again in his eyes.

Professor Trelawny looks as though Christmas has arrived. "Why, as a matter of fact, I do!" she cries.

I work hard to suppress a groan. Unable to help myself, I ask, "Let me guess—it involves my dying, right?" It is a weak joke, as it's already an accepted fact that we will all be dying tonight. Sadly, in the long run, Trelawny's predictions of my death were true. But then, eventually, under any circumstances, they would have been anyway.

Trelawny never was one to take jokes well. She immediately grows indignant and huffy. "Every Seer makes mistakes, dear boy. It is the overall count of successes that matters."

"Looking at it from that angle doesn't really help matters," says Hermione in a low voice, and I can't help but grin.

Apparently having heard this as well, Trelawny folds her arms across her chest and turns her head. "Fine! I shan't grant prophecies to those insolent clouded Eyes who offer no faith."

"Forget we mentioned it, Sibyll," Dumbledore speaks up, his voice calm and soothing. "You are not a trained monkey, nor should you be asked to perform like one."

"Thank you, Dumbledore," she says with satisfaction, unaware that Ron and I have almost begun sniggering at the analogy of Trelawny to a monkey. For the briefest of times, it feels like we're all Third Years again, crowded around in Trelawny's stuff tower room, loathing her together.

I allow the moment of nostalgia to pass, and prepare myself once more. "All right, is everyone armed?" I ask, feeling my heartbeat increase. There are murmured affirmative answers, and I nod briefly. "You all understand what we're doing tonight? You know that this is not a battle where we're evenly matched, or even a battle that we have much chance of surviving? You understand that we are making one final stand now, and you are still willing to follow?"

The answers are firmer this time, and I feel slightly heartened by that. Hermione grabs my hand and I squeeze it. As I speak, I force myself to sound the part of the brave, willing leader, instead of the scared kid that I am. "Okay, then. It's time."

And it is with those last words that I take the first step in the direction of Puerclades.


	15. Promise of an Eternity

14

Promise of an Eternity

"_Though this might just be the ending_

_Of the life I've held so dear_

_But I won't run_

_There's no turning back from here_

_Stand my ground, I won't give in_

_No more denying, I've got to face it_

_Won't close my eyes and hide the truth inside_

_If I don't make it, someone else will_

_Stand my ground."_

_--Within Temptation_

**Harry**

I'm in a world all my own, an alternate reality of which I am the sole inhabitant. In one world, my feet may be plunging through the many feet of snow, having difficulty with each step and fighting the urge to stop then and there; my heart may be pounding and my friends may be following me to their deaths, but in my reality, I am all alone in the darkness. I'm walking and walking, just like I am in the forest of my shared reality, but instead of walking towards doom, I'm walking toward a light. Hope, maybe? Life? I don't know, but it is my drive and inspiration to reach that light, for light represents all that is good. Nothing bad can come of the light—only of the darkness.

But here, in the snowy, chilled world of the black forest, there is no light on a distant horizon, no hope or life to work for, to run toward. All that's here is darkness and death, weighing on our shoulders and hanging over our heads with each movement and each passing moment.

I'm the leader and everyone is aware of it. Even Dumbledore follows me now, which would normally be quite a cause for pondering and feeling awkward about, if it weren't for our current circumstances. They will follow me in this battle and for the rest of this night—the rest of our lives. They've placed their complete trust and faith in me by agreeing to do this my way, and they can't take it back now, whether they want to or not. I've gone from being exiled to being the leader of not one, but _both_ groups. It is pressure unknown, pressure unheard of—but in a way it isn't so bad. It isn't like some common battle where I know their lives rest in my hands and in my every decision. Their lives are out of my hands now—I've already made the conscious decision to lead us all to a slaughter. So the pressure of wondering if my decisions in battle will lead us to our graves is off. All that can come from my screwing up in this battle will be us dying sooner. But I still feel the pressure. For we could kill ourselves here and now and do the same amount of damage as we will be should we be struck down in our first moments of battle. I'm doing this to try to make some difference, to prove that we will not back down, to kill even _one_ of theirs. And if I don't accomplish that, I must go to my grave knowing I've failed, and that the blood of everyone I've ever loved rests on my hands.

I am numb as we walk, our feet dragging, nearer and nearer to Hogwarts. It would be easier to Apparate, certainly, but why? Walking may be more gruelling, more tiring, and the wind and snow may be cutting through our clothes and skin to the cores of our bones, but no one is opposing for one simple reason—the longer we walk, the longer we live. These are our final moments, grim and tense as they may be; why cut them short?

Silence has fallen over us all and I wonder if any of us will speak again before the battle. I don't think I could talk if I wanted to; my throat has constricted to the point that it is difficult to breathe. If I'm to be honest with myself, I'm almost anxious for the inevitable face-off. The guilt and pain and nausea can cease then, and the fact that I am starting to face now, the fact that I've been trying to ignore for two years, is that death can be no worse than this life, especially now that I have made peace with all I can. Scary though it is, perhaps that light of my alternate reality does exist here—it is simply disguised as blackness.

**Hermione**

Harry and I walk side by side, everyone else following in our wake. We are the front lines of our attack, the leaders, the generals. It is very imposing, I must admit, the thought that I have gone from traitor to leader in so short a time. I don't trust myself—I don't understand how _they_ can. But it would feel terribly wrong to be anywhere other than at his side, and despite my discomfort, I don't even consider falling back.

I don't know how Harry feels about our impending deaths, but the fact is that I don't mind things the way they are. I've long since stopped fearing death—I've tried to bring it on myself a few times. If I hadn't promised Harry to stay beside him, I think I might have killed myself sooner than march into this battle. I would die either way—I simply would rather it be by my own hand then by the people who've always sworn to destroy me. I don't want to let them know that they have indeed accomplished that, after so long that I have tried to keep it from happening. But I have promised Harry, and I will not allow myself to go back on that word.

My legs ache from plowing through the thick snow, but I don't notice. Instead I look at Harry out of the corner of my eye. He seems to feel my gaze and looks to me a few moments after I have trained my eyes upon him. In the few instants that our eyes remain locked, I can see in his a tumtulous whirlpool of emotion—regret at so many things in this life he never accomplished; love for me and for all of us; guilt, for leading us into this; hatred of it all; and fear. He tears his gaze away and focuses on the snow at his feet, and I feel a tear brimming in my eye, for I can suddenly understand his emotions. I've not felt those emotions myself, for I gave up such things long ago in return for blessed sanity. But now, reading them in the boy who walks beside me—in the one person I have allowed myself to care about—I know how he feels. So many things in life have been torn from us because of Voldemort. He had to grow up without parents, but even that wasn't enough. Voldemort had to strip away his whole life—and later _my_ whole life—and put us in this situation, taking away every last thing that remained. We will never graduate from Hogwarts, after all the effort we put in. Harry will lose the life-long war that has been waged between himself and the Dark Lord. The two of us will not get a chance to explore this new phase in our relationship. I will not survive to see the dawn I was always waiting for during my time at Puerclades. I will die in the darkness that surrounds me now, never even to see the sun once more.

A single tear rolls down my face before I again cut myself off from feeling.

**Harry**

I don't know how long we've been walking. The last thing I can clearly remember is looking into Hermione's amber eyes, so full of the hurt she's endured, and I regret with all my heart that I have finally gotten the chance to express my feelings for her only on our doomsday.

Since silent instant we shared, I have gone back and forth between my secret reality and the normal one—perhaps some would prefer to call it the conscious and the unconscious. I have no earthly idea _what_ to call it, for I've never experienced such a sensation before: the need to slip into my own world, while at the same time responsibility anchors me to the one I share with everyone else. Everything's been a blur since that began. I find myself walking toward the gorgeous light that never seems to get closer, and then it blacks out and is replaced by neverending trees, only to then reappear again. Several times I am startled to find that I am still moving at all, I feel so numb both mentally and physically.

Nothing gets through to me until I feel a soft hand upon my shoulder, and hear a gentle voice murmur my name. The hand slips away and I realize, once more in a conscious state, that Hermione's hand has fallen away because I've kept moving when she and the rest have stopped. I freeze and turn to face them, confused and dazed.

"What's happening?" I ask, feeling foolish. I'm supposed to be leading them, and yet it's I who is asking _them_ what's going on. I can only pray that Hermione has been paying better attention and focus to where we're going, though it's more likely that she has been following me as well.

However, I don't see worry or uncertainty on the faces of my followers, nor do I see them doubting my role as leader. Dumbledore gives me a sad, understanding smile. It is a hard night; they know how I feel. Perhaps some of the others are lost in their own realities at this very moment, walking toward a phosphorescent light that they will never reach.

"We can't keep walking forever," Hermione says to me softly. "If we intend to reach Hogwarts before they ambush us, then we've got to get going. Going this route will take us a week or two." I can tell she doesn't want to say these words, for saying them means that instead of our walk continuing on into blessed oblivion, we will have to actually begin aiming for where we are headed. I feel distant satisfaction at the hesitation in her voice. _Yes_, _Hermione_, _it's_ _time_ _for_ _someone_ _else_ _to_ _make_ _the_ _deadly_ _decisions_, _to_ _say_ _the_ _words_ _that_ _will_ _condemn_ _us_. _I've_ _said_ _them_ _enough_. Instantly, I feel bad for my thoughts. I have no right to direct my anger at her, silently or otherwise.

I simply nod, not having the courage to speak.

"I shall Apparate us to the edge of Hogsmeade if it is your wish, Harry," Dumbledore speaks up from the back of the group, where he has been walking. Seeing him now, pushing onward through the cruel and driving snow, his long beard and hair blending into the white of the landscape, he looks so old and frail, as if he should be carrying a knobbly wooden cane to lean on. I've never thought of Dumbledore that way before; there's always been something strong and mighty about him, something empowering, regardless of the fact that he may look like an old man. But on this night, I can sense nothing of that about him. This is perhaps one of the hardest blows yet, the realization that Dumbledore has lost his power, seeing for the first time the weariness that is etched in his every wrinkle.

I stare blankly at a section of snow. I want this to end. I don't want to be a leader, not in this. Ron can have it, or Hermione, or Dumbledore, or anyone but me. I just don't want to have to say the words I know I must. In a twisted way, I'd like death to just come upon me now to stop all this from continuing—and yet, I want that because I don't wish to say the words that will lead us to Death's doorstep.

"Okay," I whisper the single word, choked and strained. I know that I can't be instilling hope in those who are following my lead, and I suddenly feel angry with myself. I have to do a better job at giving my companions some feeble kind of hope or else the moment we arrive we'll end up running.

"Okay," I repeat more forcefully. "Gather round in a circle and Dumbledore will Apparate us."

Silently, people begin to shuffle about, getting into the loose formation of a circle, each person touching the one on either side of them. I link hands with Hermione and Neville. I try to catch Hermione's eye as Dumbledore begins the process, but she will not comply, perhaps deliberately, perhaps unknowingly. I can feel Neville's shaking hand against my own and feel sympathy for the boy and disgust with myself. What right do I have to feel frightened and guilty? It was my decision that put us here. I respect Neville for even being able to hold up under the pressure of this situation, when he can hardly keep his head in Snape's dungeon. This whole thing has strengthened him more than I've realized. I glance at him and give him as much of a smile as I can muster. He looks slightly relieved, dependent upon my reaction to guide him. This steels my will to stop being ambivalent about my feelings. I won't let him down—I won't let any of them down.

I close my eyes, remembering Dumbledore's earlier instructions. It's hard to will myself to _want_ to go where we're headed, but I somehow find the strength. Moments later, I feel a sharp jolt behind me and I'm suddenly hovering, completely suspended with no ground below my feet, connected only to Hermione's and Neville's hands. I keep my eyes closed, having the feeling that perhaps I don't want to see exactly where I am at the moment. Then my feet land hard on the ground, and my eyes snap open. My knees, which I locked upon impact, hold steady. Neville's buckle, forcing Fred—who stands on Neville's far side—and I to haul him up again.

Once Neville is standing once more on shaky legs, I look around myself, feeling slightly jarred to see the familiar place I stand in. It was once a place of such happiness and innocence, and it's now been reduced to a ghost town. I feel Hermione take my hand, and I don't need to look at her to know that she feels just as wrong-footed as I do. I squeeze her hand, as much to reassure myself as her. Reassure us of what, I don't know, for our feelings of dread are quite dead on; however, it's the only thing that feels right.

We stand huddled tightly in a group at a fork in the cobblestone path that leads through Hogsmeade. It's the first time we've been here since the attack upon Hogwarts. The state of the town is enough to steal what meager shards of hope I may still have been holding onto. All the shops surrounding us are closed down and dark. Many of the signs are cracked and hanging from one chain rather than two, some with holes burned through them. The windows of the shops are shattered and I see that there is up to two feet of snow covering the interiors of some buildings. The shop nearest to me is Zonko's. The door has been torn off its hinges, and the sign is hanging crookedly, blowing creakily in the wind and sometimes clunking against the brick wall behind it with a hollow, dead sound. Shelves inside have been looted or turned over, and snow covers much of what remains. It's barely recognizable as the place we all once knew so well. There is an air of defeat and pain hanging around us, and all I want is to escape this place, to go anywhere other than here. All of Hogsmeade is shattered and broken now, robbed of its perfection and innocence, no longer the same—just like us. Nothing is the same; nothing is perfect or innocent anymore. It never will be again.

"Bloody wrong, that is," George mutters angrily as he observes Zonko's along with me. I feel certain that he and Fred are taking the shop's demolition as a personal insult.

"They've ruined it," Ginny murmurs, sounding horrified.

"Just like everything else, Gin," Ron whispers, his voice tight with anger and fear. "All they do is destroy."

My feet seem rooted to the ground as I stare down the path that forks off of the main street. It is the long path that leads down to Hogwarts. Distantly, I can see the ebony iron gate that marks the entrance and exit to the grounds. It's slightly ajar, but fully intact upon its hinges. However, the hogs that had once stood so proud upon the pedestals on either side of the gate, displaying Hogwarts' pride and glory, have been smashed. Chucks of stone are missing from the one on the left, and it's cracked down the center, half hanging from its perch. The one on the right has had its head ripped from its body.

"It's better than the other gate," Hermione whispers to me. I'm startled, not having realized that she is looking down the path as well—everyone else still seems fixated with the state of Hogsmeade, likely because they are too afraid to focus on the path, knowing where it leads. I look at Hermione, silently questioning her comment. "They've replaced the hogs with snakes there," she adds.

After a few moments, I turn my attention back to my friends, many of whom are now standing alert and silent behind me, following my gaze. "All right," I say, getting everyone's full attention. "If anyone doesn't want to do this . . ."

"None of us are backing down now, Harry," Ron says firmly. "If we'd planned to take off, we'd have done it while we were walking through the forest. But we're all still here, aren't we?"

I nod, grateful for the strength and sincerity in Ron's voice. It helps me to instill some faith in my own. "I'm sorry it's come down to this. I'm sorry I had to lead us here tonight. Most of all, I'm sorry that we didn't do more with the time we had, that we didn't get more of a chance to live the lives we're about to lose. But I think we all knew it would come down to this sooner or later. We all at least knew that we didn't stand a chance of actually _winning_. I'm ashamed that as your leader, I didn't try to do more damage while I could. All along, we were cowards pretending to be guerilla fighters—pretending to stand for a purpose, pretending that we were doing real work. Tonight is our last chance to redeem ourselves, and prove to Voldemort once and for all that Gryffindors don't go down without a fight, that we won't make this easy on him. It's time to make up for what we didn't do before. Do your best. Everything we do here tonight is significant. You're making a difference just by being here.

"Don't follow _me_ tonight—follow yourselves. Don't wait for my order. Whatever you want to do, do it. You're some of the bravest people I could ever have hoped to fight with tonight, and I trust you all to use this battle to make as much of a difference as you can. Try to take out some of them. If you can, go for their ranking Death Eaters, the ones it will hurt them to lose. Stay away from Voldemort, though. Fighting him will just get you killed quickly and pointlessly. If the battle seems to be going against us, if you see bunches of us falling, and if you think you can escape, _do it._ It's not cowardice, it's not shameful, so take the opportunity if you see it. I'd rather know that not all of our lives ended here tonight.

"Thank you for all you've done already, for being strong, for being loyal, for being brave. Thank you for trusting me." I stop talking. I don't know what else to say. I want to say something more personal, but I can't find the words. We all know this is goodbye. I can't bear to say it aloud.

My words cause an odd chain of motion throughout the group. Hermione rests her head on my shoulder, and I embrace her tightly, knowing this is the last time I will hold her so. Ron does the same with Ginny, who looks ready to cry. The twins grab their younger siblings in a rough sort of group hug, their eyes glassy and wet with unshed tears. The others turn amongst themselves, saying the goodbyes I couldn't.

Hermione and I break apart with much reluctance after several long instants. There are so many things I want to say to her, things I put off saying before in our hours together in the hideout. All that had come during that time was silence. And now, when I have so much to say, I cannot say it. Why didn't I utilize those hours—our last?

"I love you," I whisper to her, meaning these words in so many different ways.

She winces, closing her eyes and turning her face downward. She shakes her head a little bit. "Why did you have to go there, Harry?" she whispers, leaving me bewildered. "Why couldn't you leave it alone? Please don't make this harder than it already is . . . don't make me think I can't handle this." She steps closer and leans against me, saying so softly I must strain to hear her, "I love you, too."

I feel silent tears stream down my face. I lock eyes with Ron while Hermione still has her face buried in my robes. He looks away abruptly and I find myself willing him to say something. _Apologize_, _you_ _prat_, _before_ _you_ _have_ _to_ _spend_ _an_ _eternity_ _never_ _having_ _done_ _it_ . . .

His eyes flick to Hermione, and when she steps away from me, she sees him. The moment in which they stare at one another is so long, so stretched, that it feels like an hour. At long last, he takes a hesitant step forward and she takes one toward him. They hug each other awkwardly. Ron looks at her, face full of confusion.

"I—" he begins, but she cuts him off.

She shakes her head just a little and gives him a sad smile. "Don't."

I know that she forgives him—maybe not entirely, but at least enough. She knows that there's no point in holding grudges—not any longer. Ron can sense this, too. I can see on his face that he doesn't feel he's said enough, though. And now he'll have to hold his silence forever.

With Hermione standing halfway between Ron and I, and everyone else watching our exchanges with guarded eyes, I sigh and take her hand. Without speaking, I take one step down the path toward Hogwarts, and then another.

Our footsteps echo softly into the night, fading away before they've been repeated even one full time in the still air. The wind, which had been blowing so viciously earlier, seems to be holding its breath as we take step after step. I know, as I have known for quite some time, that Voldemort will likely be waiting for us. He has to know we're coming, has to be waiting for our arrival, or else he'd have attacked sooner. Perhaps he sees no harm in letting us pick the battleground and allowing us to be somewhat prepared. He knows as we do that we don't stand a chance. He's likely playing with us, allowing us to drag out our own last hours.

The path comes to an end, and we are now standing within Hogwarts's grounds. I see the lake far off, growing closer with each step I take. I pull out my wand and light it, giving the command for everyone else to do the same. My command may confuse them, but they follow it nonetheless. I am not concerned that anyone will see the light of our wands; we have nothing to hide here tonight. I want them to know that we don't come in stealth. They will know that we march forward, appearing as overly confident as they will feel the moment they see us.

We circle the iced-over lake, and I see Hagrid's old hut nearby. It's burned now, only a few charred pieces of wood sticking up from the snow, naked and alone as they face the bitter elements. Fang had died in the fire. The Death Eaters had set it ablaze as they marched up to the school that first day. Hagrid had been spared only because he'd been eating a meal with the rest of us at the time. I feel my stomach twist at the memory.

I stop us all on a long and wide stretch of grass. Our backs are to the forest, wands out to light the way as we stare at the empty expanse that will hold the Death Eaters, once they choose to arrive. We will make our stand here. Everyone senses my decision—for what other reason would I have to stop?—and they begin to shift uneasily. Hermione leans into me.

After a few moments of silence, she murmurs softly, "They've removed the magical barrier around the school that keeps people from Apparating onto the grounds. They've changed it to block only those who don't wear the Dark Mark. They could show up at any minute."

I nod. My vocal cords seem to have frozen, and I can't manage to relay this message to the others. I don't suppose they really need to know, anyway.

It's cold and none of us are comfortable, but no one tries to sit down or speak. We all know that they're tracking us, and sooner or later they'll realize that we aren't leaving here. They'll come to us and none of us intend to be caught off guard.

And come to us they do—no more than five minutes after our arrival, it happens, in a motion so swift and quick that it takes us all a moment to realize exactly what has occurred. With loud, repetitive cracks that split the night air violently, a sea of black-cloaked Death Eaters appear before us in a wave. They are standing in rows, long and wide, and they form a sort of rectangle. There must be a hundred, and more are appearing every instant, not to mention all the Death-Eaters-in-training that are sleeping within the school at this very instant. The Death Eaters all wear white bone masks, carved into the shape of grinning skulls—a preview of what awaits us. Only Lucius Malfoy remains unmasked, standing in the front row, smirking.

I try to swallow my fear and appear strong, but it's nearly impossible. We're outnumbered five to one. It seems so much more imposing now that I am faced with the enemy. My small, pathetic, ragged group that stands around me in no particular formation facing a hundred organized Death Eaters, each awaiting the order to attack. So this is what it comes down to. This is how it will end: standing on a snowy stretch of grass in the wee hours of the morning, facing Death Eaters that want nothing more than to kill me—to kill us all.

The situation grows worse with the Apparition of one last person. This crack is quiet compared to the ones that sounded moments before when the Death Eaters were Apparating as one—it is what a small tree limb cracking is to an entire tree trunk splitting. But the quiet way in which he appears is, as it always is with the Dark Lord, somehow more menacing, more sinister. He stands before us now, taller than the rest by a foot, not wearing a mask or a hood. His flaming red eyes cut the night—they stare straight at me, burning into my pupils with all the intensity of hot coals. He stands before the rest of his men, as I stand before the rest of mine. Only fifteen or so feet separate us, and I feel a sudden uprising of hatred which brings with it a certain kind of strength—just enough to offset the fear for a moment.

He laughs then—a cold, mirthless sound that resonates in the air around us. He is the king of the night, controller of the darkness; he can make it do whatever he pleases. I long for the daylight, knowing grimly that I shall never see it again.

"Harry Potter, you have been foolish," Voldemort taunts, a smile twisting his face. "Coming here to wait for me? So kind, I must admit, for it is a bit cold to be playing cat and mouse. However, I'd have assumed you would try to run from me? Are you indeed this eager for death?" His eyes are alive with morbid pleasure as he baits me.

"Running wouldn't have done us any good, as you bloody well know," I say, keeping my voice firm and strong.

His smile widens, creasing his pale face. The Dark Lord doesn't need a mask to look frightening. "So the Mudblood discovered the Tracer. Of course she would; so bright in school, isn't that right? Yet not bright enough, apparently, for it was too late by the time she discovered it. She has truly been the cause of your downfall, Harry, hasn't she? Once a friend, now she is the traitor who brought things to the way they are tonight. You never believed my words before. I tried to tell you—to tell all of you—that Mudbloods will be the downfall of decent, pureblood wizards. But none of you wanted to listen. And look where it has gotten you!"

My eyes flick to Hermione, who stands slightly behind me. I can see the shame on her face as she glances toward the ground. This is still such a sensitive topic for her, and she blames herself enough as it is. I want to tell her not to listen to him, but I force the words down. To speak such a thing now, standing before him, would show her weakness—as well as mine. That's not something I want to do, and certainly not something she would want done.

Voldemort must have read something in my expression though, for he laughs again. "So you feel something for her, do you?" My head snaps around and I glare at him. "How sweet. Despite everything she's done to ruin you, you can forgive. _Love_—your downfall to the bitter end. Unfortunately, I do not possess such forgiveness, and I am very much looking forward to finally seeing your end, Harry."

"Then try and do it," I growl. "We didn't come here to talk."

"So very eager. You do know you don't stand a chance, don't you?" Voldemort continues, apparently enjoying this prolonged verbal torture.

"Maybe not. But you've messed up before, so you never know," I reply coldly.

His eyes flash and I watch his smile vanish. "Not tonight, dear boy, I assure you. Your cat-and-mouse days are over. Death Eaters—go forth and finish these pathetic rebels in whatever way you see fit. But bear in mind one thing: Harry Potter is mine." As he says this last bit, our eyes meet. I see in his the morbid lust for murder that always resides there, now magnified by a tenfold. He is positive that tonight he will at long last get his chance to kill me. The saddest thing is, so am I.

And then it begins. There's no pattern to it, no technique. I can't say which side fires the first curse, and I can't say it really matters, because seconds later, the air is filled with jets of light, a deadly kaleidoscope of color. It's all we can do to dodge them. I see that our curses hit our targets much more frequently, due to the size of the target we have to aim at. This isn't a particularly encouraging fact, though, for their great size and numbers only means that we have more of them to disable. As the curses fly, our groups make slow, staggering progress toward one another, stopping to avoid curses and in our case alone, to revive a fallen comrade struck down by a Stunner once or twice. At last, with a less dramatic clash than one would imagine, our groups meet and mingle. Without much chance to understand what's happening, I am thrust into a writhing mass of bodies—the Death Eaters.

It's madness, there's no other way to describe it. People all around—shoving, hitting, grabbing, attacking anyone in their way. Arms and hands grab at me and I am being pushed from side to side on a periodic basis. I can tell that none of my attackers have even realized who I am; they're just going for anyone and hoping for an enemy.

I look around desperately for Hermione, but can't find her. It's no surprise that I've lost her in this mess, but it makes me panic slightly. She's as big a target in this as I am. I fight down the urge to run about calling her name. That would do no more than give away who I am to those who have not yet realized my identity in the darkness, and over the noise, there would be no chance of her hearing me anyway. I swallow my desire and turn to fire a few more curses.

My mind is buzzing. It's as though static fills my head, so loud it drowns out almost all other sound. I'm running on pure adrenaline and fear. I'm somewhat detached from it all, my brain's way of keeping me sane through the madness, perhaps. I automatically fire a Stunner in one direction, then turn and shoot an Impediment Jinx in another, not aiming at anyone in particular. Colors blur into darkness before my eyes. What meager light we had before is stifled in this sea of black bodies. My enemies can't even see enough to tell that I am not one of them. Though this protects me for the time being, it worries me as well; for if they cannot distinguish between friend and foe, what makes me think that I have that ability?

A violent shove from someone to my right snaps me back into focus. I realize that there is no sense in remaining here, where all reality is turned upside down. If I hope to stand a chance in this fight, if I hope to be a leader, I need to get out of here and judge my surroundings accurately. Besides that, I cannot hide in here and strike down unseen enemies, thereby leaving it up to my friends to fight the Dark Lord. That's my job, my burden, and it has been since the day I was born. I've been telling my friends what I expect of them in this battle because I've known that it will inevitably come down to a duel between myself and Voldemort on this night. To avoid it for any longer would simply be enabling him to attack my people, and with him on the offense, none of them stand a chance. I'm the only one who can hope to oppose him successfully, who can hope to cause any damage whatsoever. For years I've known it, and tonight, I must face it.

I push and shove without concern for drawing attention to myself. I don't know which way is up or down, left or right, for I have been spun and pushed to the point where all sense of direction has been lost on me. But unlike those unfortunate fellows who become trapped beneath the angry sea, I know that whichever direction I go in, I will eventually break the surface. As I fight my way through the crowd, my skull feels as if it's on the edge of imploding from all the noise. Screams of curses, and cries of pain and anger fill the air. No single voice is distinguishable in this cacophony of sound.

At last, I manage to make my way out of the centermost area of the crowd. Rather anticlimactic, actually: one more step, a shove from an unknown assailant, and I stumble through the snow, feeling the relief of having space separating me from other people. People still surround me, of course, Death Eaters on all sides, but I actually have room to move. Gasping for breath, I turn and observe the mess from which I've just escaped. Now that our two sides have merged, it's pure chaos. I can't pick out the forms of my own people—which is, I imagine, the only reason we're still alive. After being in that position, I know the impossibility that is trying to tell one person from another. Naturally, they must be having the same difficulty, and much to my surprise, our small numbers actually seem to have given us an advantage. Our people are lost within the hundred-plus Death Eaters. And they, always willing to sacrifice their own, end up shooting their own people down in an effort to get to us. They are evening the odds for us.

Though I have no idea where most of my people are—somewhere within center of the chaos, out of sight but still fighting, I pray—I can spot a few of them. Remus has a pair of Death Eaters on him, but he's holding them at bay quite effortlessly by casting a hair growth charm on himself and twitching and screaming—feigning a transformation into a werewolf. I watch him in admiration. The clouds cover the sky, preventing the Death Eaters from realizing that tonight is a night of the new moon, which would have no effect on Lupin's lycanthropy. Clearly, most of them don't keep track of lunar charts day by day, as many seem to be falling for his ruse quite well.

Two of Dumbledore's group are near Lupin, fighting four Death Eaters. Despite the fact that one has a grotesquely large nose from a spell gone awry, they appear to be holding their own quite easily.

I can see Hagrid in the middle of the fight only because he towers above those around him. From what I can tell, most of the Death Eaters seem to be rather uneager to cross him. For those few who don't harbor such a fear, they find that his giant lineage protects him from most curses. Hagrid quickly dispatches all of his assailants before they get a second shot at him.

I turn and see that George is fifteen feet away from me, locked in a vicious duel with a Death Eater twice his size. The Death Eater has his back turned to me, and I can see even from this distance that George is weakening. I raise my wand, aiming carefully at the back of the Death Eater, praying he doesn't move at the last second and unwittingly allow my spell to hit George instead. "_Stupefy!"_ I whisper, and a jet of light lances through the air, striking down the Death Eater mere seconds later.

George watches the man fall and looks up in surprise, his eyes locking onto mine. He gives me a weary grin of thanks before turning to meet more of the oncoming forces.

I study my surroundings. I don't see Voldemort anywhere. Try though I might, I simply can't picture him in the middle of the battle. He will have separated himself, put himself apart so that he can oversee. He would wait for his Death Eaters to either do or botch the job he was expecting of them before intervening. But I don't see him. This fact frightens me far more than the sight of him ever could.

People are beginning to notice me now. I realize that more curses are being aimed at me, and I raise my wand, preparing to defend myself. But just as three of the Death Eaters bear down on me, their ghoulish bone masks leering, a soft voice somehow manages to rise above all the clashes and screams.

"Harry Potter."

These words, seemingly so unimportant in the midst of this violent battle, have the effect of turning heads. The Death Eaters that had been coming for me bow low and back away, going immediately to rejoin the raging battle.

I spin around and see Voldemort standing no more than ten feet away from me, his face twisted into an expression of terrible anticipation. His red eyes are boring into me, and I am only vaguely aware of more of the Death Eaters in my vicinity backing away slowly, leaving a clear path between myself and the Dark Lord.

"The time has come, boy," he taunts. "No more running away for you."

I don't take the bait that he has so obviously laid for me to bite. He may enjoy his verbal games and mental manipulation, but I've grown sick of taking it. I raise my wand quickly, while he is not expecting it. "_Expelliarmus_!" I cry, before he has time to react.

He sidesteps casually and the beam of light I fired flies past him, harmlessly disintegrating into the air. He laughs chillingly. "Come now, surely you can do better?" He doesn't raise his wand, doesn't make any move to come closer. He is waiting for me to attack.

If he wants me to make the first move, I won't disappoint him. Aiming for his wand arm, I yell, "_Engorgio_!"

The spell hits him in the hand, just as I'd intended. His hand should be swelling uncontrollably, but nothing happens. I stare in confusion as he raises his hand for me to see. It looks exactly as it did before my attack.

Growing frustrated with my inability to cause him any damage, I throw out every curse I can think of from my days at Hogwarts. I yell them one after another, barely stopping to take a breath.

"_Rictusempra_! _Tarantallegra_! _Furnuculus_! _Petrificus_ _Totalus_!"

Voldemort makes no attempt to dodge any of my spells. They all hit him dead on, and yet none of the spells cause him any damage. It appears as though I am doing no more throwing harmless sparks at him. I'm getting frightened now. What's going on? How can I fight someone who is impervius to all of my attacks?

Desperately searching for something that will work, I try the last two things I can think of. "_Impedimenta_! _Stupefy_!" But even as I yell the curses, I feel a sinking certainty that they will do no good. The red and yellow beams of light disappear into the blackness of Voldemort's cloak, but he remains standing where he is, entirely uneffected. The air has grown so thick that I feel as though I'm choking on it.

Voldemort smirks at me. "Childrens' spells. You're in a man's duel now, Harry. Your father would be so disappointed—_he_ never wasted time with such uneffective methods."

A great anger roars to life inside me, triggered by his taunts about my father. It isn't just those comments that have angered me—they have simply released an anger that I've carried my whole life, always suppressed, but always there. The man—no, not the man, the _monster_, the _beast_—that stands before me is at fault for every last bit of hardship I've had to face in my life. Now that I face him with the grim promise that I won't survive no matter how this plays out, all I want to do is get revenge. I don't care what becomes of me in the process. I have a desire to hurt him, to _kill_ him, a desire so powerful that it scares me on every level. I've never felt anything like it before. It's so deeply consuming.

I raise my wand once more, preparing to show him what a _man's_ spell looks like. I've never before in my life used the Killing Curse, and I've never been instructed in its use. I know it must be complex and that I haven't the slightest idea how to work it, but none of these logical thoughts stop me from yelling, "_Avada_ _Kedavera_!"

I don't expect it to work, I honestly don't. I imagine that little green sparks will fly a few inches before settling upon the ground like snowflakes, and that Voldemort and his Death Eaters will laugh at my pathetic attempt. To my great surprise, a moment after the words have left my mouth, my wand releases a long green beam of light that arcs toward Voldemort. I see his eyes widen in surprise, feel my heart rise in my throat, and watch as the beam strikes him directly in the chest.

This one has an effect on him. He doubles over and cries out, piercing the silence. My mind feels as though it's shutting down. Is this even possible? Have I really killed the Dark Lord?

And then, as I watch, he rises once more to his full height. Despite the fact that he looks the same, and no light surrounds him, he positively radiates strength. His eyes and his smirk seem all the more daunting. Yes, my magic effected him, but it seems to have done no more than strengthen him. The Killing Curse made him _stronger_!

He laughs again, and I feel a shudder race down my spine involuntarily. My mind is spinning, and I can't seem to grasp the reality of my surroundings. "Now _that_ is a commendable attempt!" he says haughtily. "But you can't kill me, Harry. I'm beyond that stage now. I've had enough of your futile efforts to take my life. Bow to me, boy, and I shall make your death painless. Or defy me, and I can make you yearn to die."

Many of the Death Eaters that are not in the thick of the battle have stopped to watch our confrontation, and I can hear them laugh with the knowledge that I am finished. I'm not yet so willing to allow them that pleasure. I need time to consider what I'm going to do. I don't know what good it will do me, but I know that I will not lay down and die here at his feet. He'll have a more difficult time of it than that.

My back is to the Forbidden Forest. If I can distract him long enough to escape into the trees, I might be able to grant myself a few more minutes at least. I look at Voldemort, frowning. I can't effect him with my spells. What can I do?

"Come now, boy, the choice doesn't present that much of a dilemma, does it?" Voldemort mocks. "Perhaps if you—"

From my periphereal vision, I see something move by his feet. I look down just in time to see a great section of the snow on the ground disappear entirely. Voldemort stumbles just as the snow that had disappeared moments before reappears over his head, partially burying him in white.

Voldemort screams in anger as I turn and run for the trees, not stopping to wonder who has come to my aid. I have a fairly shrewd suspicion; Fred and George always were well-known for enchanting snow to do various things during snowball fights at Hogwarts.

Voldemort yells again and I hear an ubrupt rise in the noise level. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals that the Death Eaters have begun firing at me and are finding fierce opposition in my friends. I turn away again and find myself plunging through the first row of trees and into the Forbidden Forest. My eyes, which have adjusted to the dim light provided by the weak, cloud-shrouded starglow, are taken by surprise at the depth of the blackness in which I find myself. I find myself pausing mid-step out of pure disconcertion.

Seconds after I have stopped, my breath still coming in ragged bursts—more from shock and horror than from an excess of physical exertion—and my mind still at an immovable standstill, someone runs into me from behind.

I hear a cry of surprse from whoever has collided with me as I find myself toppling forward; I barely manage to put my foot out in time to stop myself from falling. Once I've regained some semblance of balance, I spin around, and point my wand at where I assume my clumsy assailant stands. My mind is still working at half-speed, overtaken by too many frightening and incomprehensible thoughts, and I know without a doubt that a Death Eater has braved his fellows' dangerously arcing curses and has followed me to kill me here in this pitch-black forest. I don't waste time with lighting my wand; I open my mouth, intending to say whatever spell my mind conjures up first, when a hesitant female voice stops me.

"Harry? Is that you?"

It takes me a few seconds to realize that it's Hermione, and not some homicidal Death Eater, who has followed me into the forest. I let out a shuddering breath and whisper, "_Lumos_!" Indeed, it's her. She stands little more than a foot away from me, looking slightly off to my left, unsure of my current position. Her eyes fix on mine when the light sweeps over her, and the relief and desperation in those hazel eyes is enough to start me shaking. I could have killed her! I'm so entirely unstable right now that had she not spoken, I have no idea what would have happened. I'd like to think I would only have stunned her, but after my earlier performance with the Killing Curse erupting without warning, I can't say I have any faith in that. My shaking hand makes the light of the wand jittery and erratic, as frequently illuminating a random bush or tree branch as it does Hermione's face.

I know I have to get a grip on myself. I can hardly function the way I am now. I'd thought that I was prepared to face certain death—thought that I had come to peace with the fact that I couldn't defeat Voldemort. All along, I was fooling myself. I never let go of that little strand of hope that told me there was _some_ _way_ to be rid of him. That I would find it in time. And when that hope was ripped away, it took with it the last pillar that was holding up my ruin of a life, leaving me in the state of a terrified child.

"Harry?" Hermione whispers. She steps forward and rests a hand on my shoulder, hesitant, comforting.

Though I want nothing more than to accept her comfort, to hold her until the sun rises, I know that to do so would be to allow the last of my mental resolve to slip away, the last grain of sand to fall through the minute neck of the hourglass that has been ticking inside me—inside us all—for two years now. Much as I'd like that, my friends—the people I claim to be in charge of—are out there dying while I stand here, and that is unforgivable. With a last deep breath, I focus on Hermione.

"What are you doing here?" I ask quietly, my voice carefully void of emotion. I dare not let her know how unhinged I am by the sudden discovery of Voldemort's apparent immortality.

She nods and begins to rattle off seemingly unimportant sentences so fast that I can barely follow. "Fred or George—I'm not sure which, I can hardly tell them apart when I'm _not_ fighting for my life—did a Displacement Charm on the snow so that you could get away and give me the time to get to you. I was watching you and Voldemort, and I realized that we were doing this all wrong! It's _light_ magic, Harry, not dark!" She pauses for breath and watches my reaction, practically bouncing on the soles of her feet in excitement at her incomprensible discovery.

I blink, and try though I might, in my current state of mind, her words make as little sense to me as Professor Binns's lectures ever did. "_What_?" I demand, my voice a bit sharper than I'd intended.

Hermione doesn't appear to notice or care about my tone of voice. She shakes her head. "There's no time to explain it, Harry! All you have to know is this: _You_ _can_ _beat_ _him_! You can beat Voldemort!" Her eyes glimmer in excitement, just like they always do whenever she has worked through some mystifying problem. It's so good to see that academically-excited side of her emerge again that for a moment I feel like grinning.

"How?" I ask, refraining from demanding an answer as to why the duel—if it can even really be called that—between Voldemort and I had made her feel I had a chance at succeeding, when all it had done for me was make me unsettlingly sure of the opposite.

"Remember these spells," she says breathlessly. "_Furere_ _Aliqua_, and _Adamus_. Don't forget those words, Harry! _Furere_ _Aliqua_; _Adamus_. If those don't work—which they _should_, but if you need a little something extra to finish him off with—use a Cheering Charm, or perhaps a Healing spell. I'd go with the Cheering Charm first, though."

I stare at her. This time I understand her words, but I have absolutely no idea as to what the reasoning behind them is. I seriously consider for a moment that perhaps she's gone howling mad. "_Cheering_ _Charms_? What, do you want him to be happy and bubbly while he kills me? Did you think the whole ordeal of my death would be made a little brighter by him singing a rousing rendition of 'Zippidy-Doo-Dah'? " I don't mean to sound so cruel; I know she's trying to help. But I'm scared, and have no idea how her advice will do anything more than make our situation worse.

Hermione looks at me, pleading me silently to listen. "Harry, please, just trust me. It may be a lot to ask of you after everything, but trust me. This _will_ work. I'm right on this, I _know_ I am. And I'll be happy to explain it all to you later, but I can't right now!"

Despite the fact that I still have no idea how this can possibly work, I know Hermione has never steered me wrong before. She's brilliant, as she's proven countless times to Ron and I over the years, and she wouldn't be begging me to believe her as she is unless she was was almost impossibly certain of her own accuracy. So, abandoning my inherent disbelief, I nod. "I trust you. I'll do it. _Furere_ _Aliqua_ and _Adamus_, right?" I frown. "Hermione, I don't even know what those spells _are_, let alone how to work them."

"You worked the Killing Curse earlier tonight—which is one of the most difficult spells to perform accurately—because you had enough emotion. You can do these; they're nowhere near that hard. Just put all your force of will into _wanting_ them to happen, into believing in them. It'll work," she said. "I know it."

"All right," I say, feeling the need to return to the battle clenching at me like an angry fist making balloon animals out of my stomach. "Let's go, then."

We're barely ten feet within the perimeter of the forest, and when we reach the treeline, I extinguish my wand. The violent fray has lessened dramatically in size. Bodies litter the ground, some wounded, some stunned, some dead. I don't attempt to study the prostrate figures hard enough to see whether they are of my own group or not; to do so would surely drive me into madness. There are more people lying on the ground than had consisted of twice our own original force, and clearly at least some of my people still hold their ground, or else there would be no more fighting. The Death Eaters struck down too many of their own in the earlier madness. We're now far closer to being equal in numbers. I think I can hear Professor Lupin's high-pitched, fake werewolf snarls over the rest of the noise, proving to me that his convincing performance is keeping people well enough away from him.

Separate from the battle, Voldemort stands yelling at the Death Eaters. I can't hear his words, but I imagine the gist of it consists of telling them to find me, to kill me. Suddenly the idea of how I'm supposed to go about instigating this second duel occurs to me. I suppose I'll just walk up to him, though the idea of my doing that is so ridiculous that it seems almost comical.

Hermione and I look at each other, our heads moving and our eyes locking in one seamless, orchestrated motion.

"You can do it, Harry. He's not immortal. He can't be," she says with a dead certainty. The quality of her voice makes me feel sure that she is basing this statement on factual information rather than just a desire for it to be true, and this heartens me.

"This'll work," I say, repeating what she told me earlier.

"It'll work," she repeats.

This time, though, our words are spoken at least partially out of hopeful desperation.

"Go," Hermione urges softly. "We can't hold out much longer."

Before I can say a word, she steps forward and hugs me. I'm grateful for her embrace. Due to the difference in our heights, I lean my head down and rest my forehead against hers for one brief instant before she pulls away. I don't want to let her go.

"I'll see you after," I promise. But even as I say the words, I understand that I have no right to promise such a thing. I have no way of knowing if there will be any such thing as _after_.

It's good enough for Hermione. She takes off without another word, running as fast as she can, trying to get across the open field and to the battle before someone shoots at her. I don't watch her go. I trust her far more than I trust myself, and that's why I feel comfortable following her advice. Silently repeating the spells she's given me, I walk across the open snow toward Voldemort himself, for round two of our final duel.

Voldemort notices me when I have crossed half the distance between us. He spins and his eyes fall on me, making me halt unconsciously in my tracks. His face opens in a sadistic smile and I clutch my wand desperately, not yet raising it, waiting for a moment to take him by surprise.

"Potter!" he cries, his voice full of angry mirth. "Come back to die like a man rather than a mouse, eh?"

To my right, the battle is slowing. I notice this not by sight, but by sound. As the sounds of fighting gradually diminish, I realize that my friends and enemies have stopped throwing curses at one another. They know the significance of the battle between Voldemort and I. We are the respective leaders of our groups, and whichever one of us falls symbolizes the fall of that side. The Death Eaters, of course, have no doubt in their own leader, and have simply turned to watch me meet my end at last. Perhaps my own group doesn't see the personal fight between the Dark Lord and I in the symbolic way that I do, either. Regardless of their view on the matter, I can tell they are turning their eyes to us once more, only some of them continuing to fight on.

I don't intend to waste time on petty mind games. I've resigned myself to the fact that if Hermione's spells don't work, I will die. But I will not flee from him again. Slowly, remembering Hermione's words about believing in and wanting the spells to work, I raise my wand. _Trust_ _the_ _spells_, I tell myself silently. _Trust_ _Hermione_.

Voldemort laughs. "Come to throw more useless curses at me, boy? Did running restore your faith a little? Well I suppose it's only fair to let the condemned say their final words. But after this one, Harry, the game is up. After this, I kill you at long last." He watches me, his crimson eyes containing the very flames of Hell. He doesn't believe I can do this. _I'll_ _show_ _him_, I think fiercely.

"_Furere_ _Aliqua_!" I yell, shouting the first curse Hermione had instructed me to use. I'm careful to enunciate it properly. My anger once again does the trick as a beam of lavender light peels through the darkness and hits Voldemort in the stomach.

This time he doesn't laugh, doesn't spread his arms and welcome my attack. I have no idea what I've done, no understanding of what the effects of the spell were intended to be, but when I see Voldemort stagger, eyes no longer dancing in wicked anticipation, serpent mouth gaping as if desperate to gain a breath, I feel a surge of hope run through me. The hope restores me, convinces me to raise my wand yet again and yell, "_Adamus_!"

A beam of pink light strikes him in the chest.

His fingers clutch the spot where my most recent spell has hit him. His face is turning red, coloring his pale and pasty skin with a crimson color that is almost unnatural in its intensity. His eyes are bulging, and he is gasping at the air. His wand has slipped through his fingers. He is violently scratching at the skin in the vicinity of where my spells have struck him.

Muttering breaks out among those watching. No one continues to fight. All eyes are trained on us, on the spectacle that is the Dark Lord Voldemort falling before the boy Harry Potter.

Do I dare to hope? To dream that this could actually be happening? To believe that Voldemort is actually dying before my eyes? The adrenaline racing through my veins at a high velocity answers that question effectively.

I want to raise my hand once more, to throw at him a Cheering Charm, just for the hell of it. To add insult to injury. To make a point that I'm in control now, and that not only has he failed, but that I have triumphed. But my hand doesn't seem to want to work as my brain tells it to. At the very least, I long to look over and seek out Hermione, to meet her eyes and convince myself that the promise I made to her barely two minutes ago when we broke apart is going to be one I can keep. But my eyes are sewn to the spectacle before me.

Voldemort's gaping mouth, up until this point a portrait of silence, suddenly releases an unearthly shriek that makes me want nothing more than to cover my ears and run. Instead of moving, my eyes widen as he falls to his knees, clutching his chest with his face contorted in what could only be the agony of a thousand Cruciatus Curses as he shrieks with enough ear-splitting intensity to put a banshee to shame.

And now, in a sight reminiscent of Professor Quirrell with the Philosopher's Stone those many years ago, Voldemort begins to decompose before my eyes. It starts in his hands, a gradual burning without flames. His skin turns hard, stony, blackened like charred log and soot. His eyes no longer contain Hell's fire, only the black abyss of a soulless entity as the decomposition completes, and his body begins to turn to ash.

This is the last I see of Voldemort's dying moments. My scar suddenly blazes with furious pain. I'm not aware of screaming, not aware of hearing anything besides the cries of the Dark Lord resonating within my own skull. The pain is far more intense than anything I've ever felt. I fall to my knees under the pressure of it, entirely unaware of the physical world around me. White crawls up and threatens to overtake my vision as I hold my head, trying to keep it from splitting in two as it feels so much like it's going to. I don't understand what's going on, can't comprehend the simple fact that I'm falling slowly, that blackness is washing over me now instead of white. Why is this happening? I don't understand . . .

The darkness seizes hold of me now, and the pain recedes . . . I don't hear the Dark Lord's screams anymore . . . there's nothing to feel, nothing to see, not here . . . here in the blackness that makes a hundred nights in the Forbidden Forest pale in comparison . . .

. . . _here_, there's just . . . numbness . . .

**Hermione**

The world is still.

No one moves. No one speaks. No one breaths.

We watch.

No one can take their eyes off the still and quiet form that lies in the snow, and the pile of blowing ashes that only seconds ago was a living being. Not a human, no longer capable of being defined by such means; but living, nevertheless. Two enemies long standing, long fighting, now perished in the same instant, the same action.

We're frozen.

Ron stands beside me. Moments ago we'd been standing here on the verge of jumping for joy. The Dark Lord was falling!

Then Harry fell, too.

I'm the first to break the stillness. I step forward hesitantly. It is this one movement, one extremely insignificant movement, that starts the world up again. And suddenly, all I want is to reach Harry. If I reach him, I know everything will be fine. He's fainted . . . been stunned . . . nothing worse, certainly . . . I just have to reach him, to revive him . . .

He promised me we'd see each other after.

Harry keeps his promises.

Ron gently wraps his hand around my arm and pulls me back to him. "Hermione, don't," he says. His voice is choked, restricted, and looking at him, I see the tears running down his face. His eyes are locked firmly on Harry.

"I have to go to him, Ron," I whisper, my voice containing a desperation that my body and mind don't feel in their absolute numbness.

Ron shakes his head, still not taking his eyes away from where Harry lays. "No."

I pull at my arm, trying to get him to release me. "Ron, please—"

The Death Eaters are beginning to stir beside us.

"Hermione, you'll be a sitting duck out there! They'll kill you, too," Ron says, his voice slowly dwindling to no more than a mere whisper as he says this.

I shake my head. I know Ron's wrong. Harry can't be dead. "He's fine," I whisper stubbornly. I know deep down that it's not Ron I am attempting to reassure.

Ron's hand goes slack suddenly, and I wrench my arm away. My feet move of their own free will, each step bringing me closer to Harry. I know that at least fifty Death Eaters stand behind me, that I am a perfect target while running through the open like this, but I don't care. Once I reach him, he'll be fine . . . everything will be fine . . .

My feet slow as I come to Harry's form on the ground. He lays where he fell moments ago, still and silent. His eyes are closed and his head is tilted to the side, snow speckling his hair. His right arm lays limp, his hand slightly open with his wand resting atop his palm. His scar burns red. I can't detect even the faintest rising and falling of his chest. There is not the slightest, most seemingly insignificant movement that could prove to be the difference between life and death.

I don't raise my wand. I don't whisper the reviving spell. It won't help.

He will not awaken.

This realization—something I've known from the moment I saw him hit the snow, but something I've refused to acknowledge until this point where I can deny it no longer—breaks through the wall of resistence my mind has constructed. I feel the tears stream down my face silently, each practically freezing in the cold by the time it reaches the bottom of my face.

_Oh_, _Harry_ . . .

I run my hand gently over his burning scar. It feels warm to the touch. The rest of his skin is cold, not yet from the death that has claimed him, but from the chilly conditions that surround us.

_You beat him, like I knew you could. But where did my plan go so wrong?_

With the exception of the scar that burns that unnatural color, he looks so normal, like he could stand up and walk away at any instant. But only his body lies here. His spirit, the soul that made him Harry Potter, is gone.

_Did I not think the plan through well enough? Did I overlook something?_

My tears have not stopped flowing since I knelt here beside him. Until this point, they have been silent. Now my first sob breaks the silence.

_You believed in me. You loved me. You saved me in so many ways._

The silence of the night is breaking along with the silence of my tears. I can hear muttering and rustling behind me, but the sound is distant, muffled by the pounding in my own head. I don't care about the people behind me enough to look around at them.

_Now you're gone, just like all the others . . . just like I was afraid would happen. Why did I let myself love you?_

I bury my face in his chest and let my tears continue. I want his arms to come around me again, to comfort me. I try to remember how his arms felt the last time he'd held me, maybe no more than ten minutes ago, but all I can feel is this cold embrace.

_But I did love you. I let myself need you. And now I'm alone again._

I hear a definite rise in the amount of noise behind me, but nothing is understandable. To me, it's nothing more than white noise. I don't think on it.

_Is_ _it_ _my_ _fault_ _you're_ _here_? _Maybe_ . . . _probably_ . . .

Now I can pick out faint strains of words over the din of sound. I don't know what the words are; they're mere jibberish to my unaware mind, barely distinguishable as words at all.

_You_ _promised_ _we'd_ _never_ _be_ _separated_. _I_ _believed_ _you_.

Ron's voice screams louder than any sound thus far, successfully penetrating my mind enough for me to make sense of it. "HERMIONE!"

I look up, pulling my face out of Harry's shirt, which is now wet with my tears. I turn around, but I don't see anything. I don't feel anything. Ron shouts my name again, this time with even more desperation. Why is he shouting?

_Harry_, _how_ _could_ _you_ _leave_ _me_?

My tears have blurred my vision, and when my sight begins to fade into blackness, that blurriness makes it less noticeable. My ears, already muffling sound, hardly detect the rapid decrease in noise. The darkness has seeped into my body without my noticing it in the least. Now it takes over. I don't know what's happened, or why I feel the way I do, but I suspect.

I feel so weak. I close my eyes.

_Harry_, _I'm_ _coming_ . . .

I succumb to the darkness.


	16. Epilogue

**A/N:** I'd like to take a moment to say thank you to all of the wonderful reviewers who have stuck by this story for over a year now, dealing with my frequent hiatuses and disappearances. Your words of critique and appreciation have meant the world to me, and I'm glad that my story has touched you as much as some of you have said it has. My writing skills have grown immensly by writing this. I've loved writing this fic, and I'm glad you've loved reading it as much.

And also, I'd like to explain the reasoning behind my title. I have intended to do so for a while, but in the end decided to save it for here. Phoenix tears are incredibly small and apparently insignificant things, but they have incredible healing powers. Harry, Hermione, and all the rest were a small, ragtag bunch of rebels that seemed to have no chance at doing anything bigger than surviving day to day, but in the end, they destroyed the greatest Dark regime ever to take hold of the wizarding world. They are the phoenix tears to which I was referring.

Thank you again for sticking by this story. And now, here is the final installment.

Epilogue

_"I'm still here, you're still gone_

_Nothing I say will make you come back to me_

_So I'll carry on_

_As you would have done."_

_--Eden White_

I don't think anyone can deny that this is the nicest day we've had in a considerable stretch of time. People have been talking about it inside the castle, and now I can see what they mean. The sun, normally quite well hidden behind a shield of gray clouds, is showing itself again. While the clouds still drift about in the sky, hovering near their newly released captive as though waiting for the right moment to reclaim it, they are easy to write off. I don't remember the last time I've seen the sky primarily blue rather than gray. To top all that off, it's actually somewhat warm, at least by our recent standards—it's probably a solid forty degrees or so. Anything that gets us above freezing is considered warm lately.

The birds are celebrating over my head as I walk slowly across the sloping grounds of Hogwarts castle. My eyes wander upward and I watch their playful games in the trees. Most of the snow has melted, and I can see patches of grass showing through in some areas. There aren't many yet; the snow was very deep, and while some of it has cleared, there are still sections that are two feet deep. It's wetter now, though, that's for sure. I nearly lose my footing several times in the slush as I trudge my way casually along, letting the soft sun warm my face. I'm in no particular hurry.

But as it is with most things, whether you make your way leisurely or quickly, you'll still get there eventually. After not too long, I come to a stop, and I peel my eyes away from the sky to look downward at the memorial which lies at my feet. It's no coincidence that this particular area is free of snow; I've kept it that way since the funeral a month ago. A grave guard, I guess you could call me. A weather guard, at least.

I kneel down so that I'm closer to the stone memorial. For a gravestone, it's pretty nice. It's a large, rectangularly-cut slab of shimmering black stone—obsidian, I think—that's set into the ground. The writing on it was engraved with a wand, each letter the color of deepest gold. I run my fingers gingerly over the inscribed patterns that run on either side of the gravestone—on one side, broomsticks and snitches; on the other, books and quills. It probably costs more than all the money I've had in my entire life collectively. Dumbledore arranged for it. He also sorted out the other one, which now lies in the Great Hall. That one is different, though. It's just as nice, but not in the same way. It's generic, in honor of all the people who died in the second war against Voldemort. This one is specific, which is why I suppose I like it better. My friends deserved something like this—something all their own. They didn't deserve to be thrown into some overall honorable mention in which their own names were never even stated.

I decided upon its location. Sirius was against it; he thought Harry would prefer to be buried with his parents, but I knew better. While that spot wouldn't have been objectionable, I remember Harry's last words to us as we plunged into what we thought was to be our last battle. He'd chosen Hogwarts for a battleground because he wanted a part of us to always be with this castle. Now a part of him always will be. He's buried on the spot he fell that night, near the edge of the Forbidden Forest and halfway between the lake and Hagrid's newly built hut. Hermione is buried right next to him, in the grave which was made wide enough to fit the two of them side-by-side. No one argued that that would be where she would want to be placed. So now they share a tombstone, eternally locked together physically, and—I would like to believe—spiritually.

I don't feel right, narrating this story. It's not my place. I'm reminded of this more strongly than ever as I stare down at the headstone. This was their tale to tell. I feel like a thief, stealing the ending from them. Perhaps such emotions are unfounded—it's not like they're capable of telling the end. Regardless of that, I can't banish the feeling. At one point in time, I guess the job of finishing this would have been given to me without question—at the time when the three of us were the best of friends. I don't think I'd have felt so awkward about it then. But we've been broken apart for so long, I no longer feel as though I hold that right. I can't just let this go without an ending, though; that would be much worse than my taking the narration from them. Harry and Hermione died for this end, and it will be told.

As my fingers run over the smooth obsidian, I feel the familiar knot forming in my stomach. We came here that night assuming that we would all meet our deaths. I suppose the fact that only six of us—including my two friends—were killed is a good thing. But I can only feel some unexplainable guilt about living while the two of them have died. If I'm to be honest with myself, I still often think that I would rather have died beside them than be the only one of our trio remaining, the only one left to shoulder the weight of the loss. When the sun rose the day after the battle, and the Death Eaters had fled, I began to understand what my mind had been too numb up until that point to register: my best friends were dead. I have lost so much to this war—my parents and Percy, so many friends that didn't make it out of Hogwarts, my whole life and my home . . . but I can honestly say that I never reacted quite so badly to any of it as I did to this revelation. With my parents' deaths, I'd been numb for so long that by the time I started feeling it, it was not so hard to deal with. It had been difficult, I can't deny that, but I still had Fred, George, and Ginny to help. I had Harry. He was always there. I guess I thought he always would be. But on that night on the snowy grounds of Hogwarts, that belief broke into a thousand shards. Harry and Hermione weren't just my friends; they were a part of me, as ever-present and necessary as my lungs or heart. They were pretty much all I had left. Even Hermione, whom I'd hated for so long, I still cared for deeply. I'd never stopped caring, which was what had made me bitter. When they were torn away from me, I honestly wasn't sure that I could go on. Sometimes, I'm still not sure.

I didn't understand what had happened until hours after their deaths. Harry had been winning; I'd seen it in his eyes, as well as in You-Know-Who's. I didn't see how it could have backfired so horribly. Dumbledore had explained it to me, though my grief-numbed mind hadn't processed it fully until days afterward. I remember his words with a painful clarity.

_"Every human being is made up of components of good and evil. No one can exist without at least a small portion of each. But Voldemort, after years of attempting to attain immortality in various ways and becoming so lost within his own dark prison that he could never hope to once again see the light, became something less than human. An entity so full of darkness that no other emotion was welcome. Love was the thing that, above all, Voldemort could not understand, could not handle. Love was to him as water is to fire, something that holds the prospect of pure destruction," Dumbledore said._

_"But what does that have to do with Harry?" I asked._

_Dumbledore nodded gravely. "What Miss Granger understood last night was something we'd all overlooked. Love was the only thing that could destroy Voldemort. The Killing Curse and other offensive curses only served to strengthen him. Harry has forever been Voldemort's rival, his equal in emotion, if not in power. Harry was full of love, making him a great danger to Voldemort. Lily Potter's gift to him upon her sacrifice made him just as full of love as Voldemort was of evil. Hermione had him cast love spells on Voldemort that night. The process would likely not have worked had the spells been performed by anyone other than Harry. They would have damaged him, but not destroyed him. Harry succeeded because of the love he had—for Hermione, for you, for all of us. His emotions were strong that night. Unintentionally, he transferred his love into the spells, strengthening them by an unspeakable margin. Voldemort, an entity of nothing but darkness, was overcome by his power."_

_I shook my head. "That's all well, but I still don't understand how he. . . . What happened to. . . ." I couldn't bear to finish the sentence._

_"What Miss Granger did not know—what she could not possibly have foreseen, and what I failed to foresee myself whilst I watched—was the fact that Voldemort had transferred a part of himself to Harry the night he tried to kill him as a baby. Harry was a Parseltongue because of the connection created in that instant. The Sorting Hat considered placing him in Slytherin for the same reason. Other small things became a part of Harry as well, things that never would have been there had that night not occurred. The love spells rebounded upon Harry because of that connection. It should not have harmed him, but the bits of Voldemort that had become a part of Harry were targeted by the spell. Perhaps Voldemort even projected his conscious state into Harry in those last few instants; we have no way of knowing. But one or both of these things overcame Harry. The spell was too strong. He perished alongside Voldemort. . . ."_

Dumbledore had gone on for some time after this, but I had tuned him out. I understand now what happened. An unfortunate accident . . . a last act of malevolence by the Dark Lord . . . a tragic wand malfunction . . . all of these are things I've heard Harry's death described as. But his death is not accurately portrayed by any of these. It was fate's sick joke. Harry had to be attacked that night to gain his mother's love and protection and the power to defeat Voldemort. But by being attacked, he'd also gotten just enough of the Dark Lord so that by killing him, he would kill himself in the process. A twisted destiny of epic proportions.

A lot of the days following their deaths are a blur to me now. I've blocked a lot of it out. Most of my memories after that night start up again about five days later, the day of the funeral. I guess you could say I went, but I didn't show up until the very end, after all the speeches and mourning and lowering of the caskets were done with. I was supposed to give a speech; I never did. I showed up when the wizards had already re-formed the ground atop their caskets and placed the tombstone above them. There were only a few people standing around when I got there; I didn't bother to take notice of who they were. No one had seen me since the day after we took back Hogwarts except the house-elves that brought me food. I stood there above their memorial, until the gray day passed into black night and invisible snowflakes chilled and numbed my body and made it almost as cold as those that lay beneath my feet. Finally, when I could no longer even see the headstone through the darkness, the fact that it was reality began to sink in. I sobbed alone for the longest time. To this day, I don't know for how long. All I know is that I cried for my friends, and myself, and everything that's been lost until I had nothing left but a dull, hollow feeling that I knew would never fully go away. Afterwards, no one mentioned my absent speech or late arrival. In return, I've not mentioned that day again. But I still remember it. I always will.

A lot of people tiptoed around me for a while, as though expecting me to fly off the handle at any minute. I never really gave them any reason to think that, but I let them, because it isolated me, and I needed that. Now, looking back on it, I figure they all thought I was probably some revenge-crazed lunatic. How Lucius Malfoy died is well known fact by now. I killed him that night. It was he who had fired the fatal curse at Hermione. Despite the fact that I'd never before used an Unforgivable, and that I was hardly trained in their usage, my anger was powerful enough and my desire to kill strong enough that it worked. The two words left my mouth, echoing the ones Malfoy had spoken moments before—the ones that had struck down Hermione. The last thing I remember seeing of him—the image of him that will stay with me for the rest of my life—was his shocked look as he fell, never to rise again. It was as though I'd only stunned him, as I'd already done to so many others. I felt nothing; I just stared. I stood unmoving as my comrades—those who remained—chased away the Death Eaters that were still around, the ones that hadn't fled the moment Voldemort was vanquished. Curses flashed past my head but I never saw them, I never felt them. I felt no guilt about Malfoy's death, but contrary to what I'd believed when I said the curse, I felt no relief either. He didn't matter to me anymore. All that mattered was the image of my friends dying. The image of Hermione collapsing atop Harry without a sound, and of the life going out of her in one swift and silent motion that if I hadn't been looking, I wouldn't have even noticed. Her limp body had crashed down just as the first touches of dismal dawn began to paint the horizon, and later in the process of the sun's rising, the sky would turn a deep crimson, stained with the blood that my fallen friends had not spilled upon the pristine snow that night.

Dumbledore took care of the legal implications of my using the Killing Curse. It didn't take much; no one wanted Lucius Malfoy around anyway, and everyone was willing to look the other way on it. People have gone so far as to congratulate me on killing him, on "avenging" Hermione. I wish they could understand that I have no right to avenge her, for it was my own stupidity that helped get her killed. She shouldn't have had to die. We know now that Harry's death couldn't have been helped, awful as it was. Voldemort had to be destroyed, and in order to do so, Harry had to die as well. But Hermione was innocent. She should have lived. If I'd only held onto her for a little longer. . . . At first, I'd refused to let her run to Harry. Then I just let her go. Why didn't I keep her close? Why didn't I watch out for her, or look around once in a while? I never even got the chance to tell her how sorry I was. I waited too long, and when I tried, she cut me off. She hugged me, sure, but that doesn't mean she forgave me. She didn't know what I was sorry _for_, so how could she? How could she just forgive me without hearing me after I'd been so awful? She never knew, and now she never will. Harry was right. I should have told her that night in the cabin while I had the chance. But it was my own thickheaded desire to maintain my pride that kept me from doing it. Harry told me straight out that there were no guarantees that there would be another chance. I didn't want to believe that, and so I didn't. And now I'm here, and there's no taking it back.

The war is pretty much over now. The Death Eaters are lying low, for the most part. Naturally, the more loyal and vivacious ones are still causing trouble, but that's being dealt with slowly. Azkaban has been reclaimed. The dementors are being done away with; as Dumbledore has said for years, they're too unpredictable and their loyalties too flexible. Some are being kept around, just to keep the Death Eaters under control, but they're under the close scrutiny of watch wizards around the clock. It's getting to be very full. We're catching as many of the Death Eaters as we can, and those that don't die at the hands of an Auror or aren't immediately executed for crimes against humanity, are locked up in there.

The Ministry is still somewhat in shambles. So many have died that most of those who were once in charge are gone. Those that fled to other countries are returning, but slowly. Naturally, no one is anxious to come back unless they're sure without doubt that Voldemort is truly gone and the situation is under control. Some people have been here in England all along, as slaves of the Death Eaters in one capacity or another, but not a great number. Many of the other wizarding ministries are sending help, and we have a temporary Minister, due to Fudge's demise. Elections for the next Minister will be in a month or two, whenever they can get themselves stable enough and find people willing to run. Despite the fact that Horace Harshreuff—at one point the Head Obliviator—holds the title of Minister for the time being, it's Dumbledore who's doing all the real work. Stationed here at Hogwarts, he is commanding the regrouped Aurors, and taking care of much of the political and economic difficulties. He's sent out teams of wizards to rebuild homes, and is allowing families who lost their houses to stay in Hogwarts until his team gets around to rebuilding them. Some cities are doing okay again, and more are very near to being back to stability.

Dumbledore must also contend with the unforeseen issue of Muggle relations, both inside and outside England, for our existence is no longer a secret. Too many know of us now for us to just send out the Obliviators. We've revealed ourselves to them; we had no choice. Within England alone, many issues have arisen. The simple fact that we are coming out after a mass genocide by wizards against Muggles is not exactly an embracing fact. The Muggle population seems to be predominantly decided that we're evil. I suppose I can't really blame them. Voldemort did horrible things to them, just as he did to us. It will take time to convince them that a different set of people are in charge of our world now, and things won't be the same. Some of them are still calling for war, and we can only pray that they don't agree to it, for we're not in a stable condition for such a thing right now. Besides that, we'd have to defend ourselves, which would do no more than prove to them that we're as evil as they think we are. So far, though, our governments are attempting to straighten things out peacefully. Only time will tell what's to come.

Hogwarts itself has been purged of Dark Magic and all that relates to it. The common rooms are being redone—particularly Gryffindor, which was pretty much in ruins. We have about sixty families in residence currently. More come and leave as they return from hiding or depart to new homes. The teachers that are still alive are here, and Dumbledore sits high and proud in the office where he—and no one else—belongs. Hogwarts will soon go back to being the school it was intended to be. Lists of students who will be enrolled are being made up. Right now, they aren't particularly long, but more people are coming back every day, and more students are being added. We still have a good six and a half months to get more names. In September, regardless of numbers, the school will begin again, one more step toward the normalcy that for two years has been sacrificed. Dumbledore is determined that life go on, and hard as it is, we don't have much choice but to live with it.

One would think that in the wake of the ending of such a great and terrible disaster, I would be content to look into the future with an optimistic eye and a sense that nothing that's coming could be as horrible as what's been left behind. Maybe that's how I should feel. But looking into the future does no more than shake into my very bones a fear that freezes my spirit as surely as the ice traps an unfortunate fish. I see no bright horizon, no dawning day, no brilliant display of hope. I see only a black abyss, as dark and foreboding as the deepest of nights. It all comes from the simple knowledge that I am to be very alone in any new world that comes. For now, the numbness is a salvation. It's a state in which I don't have to grasp the harsh realities facing me. But once life begins to resume pace, and once I'm forced to fall back into step with it once more, I'll have to deal with the fact that everything I once knew and relied upon is gone. One could argue that I've already faced this dilemma; after all, Voldemort's triumph over Hogwarts and England must have had a similar effect on me, right? Truthfully, though, it was easier to deal with then. Because then, nothing was normal. It was all mayhem and chaos, and we weren't supposed to have a place. We were meant to be lost and drifting with nary a thing to cling to. It was okay. It was _right_; perhaps not in the moral sense, but in the sense that no one could expect it to be any other way. Now, life is being restored to its natural order, and I'm coming to realize that my place in this world, my little nitch in the grand scheme of things, is no longer where or how I left it. And the only people I ever had to share it with have been lost as well.

Despite all the times that I argued with my brothers and my parents, all the times I told Hermione to shove it, all the times I was jealous of Harry, I always needed them. Some people can meet friends and give them away without much damage being done, but the relationship I shared with Harry and Hermione was far deeper than that. I depended on them to help me through this world, to fill in the pieces of me that I was missing on my own. I'd like to think they depended on me in the same way. Hermione was the logical one, the voice of reason, the one who thought things through with intellect when sheer brawn and bravery weren't enough. She saw the things Harry and I were simply too thickheaded to notice. She tagged along with us on all of our possibly suicidal adventures, even when what we were doing went against everything she desired, purely because she cared about us. We never would have figured out the mystery of the Basilisk or made our way to the Philosopher's Stone without her. Much as I hate to admit it after all the rude remarks I made to her about nagging me so much, the fact is that without her, I probably wouldn't have passed most of my classes. Doing so certainly would have been harder by at least a tenfold. Hell, forget classes—without her, there's a good chance I wouldn't have _lived_. And most importantly, she was a good friend. Loyal and dedicated, despite what I've thought of her over the last two years. She never abandoned Harry and I, even when we (or I suppose I should say 'I'; Harry never was one to get on her nerves too much) gave her plenty of reason to. She gave up her whole life because she thought it was in our best interest.

And Harry. The boy who just happened to sit by me on the first train to Hogwarts and rarely left my side thereafter. He was just as much a brother to me as any of my redheaded siblings. He was the brave one, the strong one, the one who held the three of us together. The boy was almost mad with a deep-rooted desire to do the right thing. He was always as willing as I to break the rules that stood in our way, thereby sharing with me a bond that Hermione and I didn't have. He made my life more interesting than I ever could have dreamed. There were times when I treated him awful, when I was jealous of him for reasons that he couldn't have helped any more than the average Muggle can help their lack of magical talent. He had every right to never speak to me again, but he forgave me. And in the end, he died for me—for all of us, so that we wouldn't have to end up buried right alongside him.

I can't remember a time when they weren't at my side. I can't imagine a future where they aren't there still. I don't know if I can make it without the two of them to set me straight when I'm being a fool, and without my family to love and support me. I'm terribly afraid that I can't. I know for certain that I'll never again find friends as good as Harry and Hermione. Maybe I never even deserved to have their friendship in the first place. Because along with the fear comes the aforementioned guilt. I was so horrible to the two of them so many times throughout our seven years of knowing one another. I can't push away the feeling that everything should be opposite of how it is; that I should be lying in a box under the earth with the two of them standing above me. The two of them died so that I could live, but the problem is, I don't feel as though I deserve that right. I don't even want to go on half the time. It's not right that they should give up their lives in return for my ungratefulness. Sometimes that's the only thing that keeps me going; the fact that if I give up, their efforts will have been in vain, at least as far as I go. Maybe it's selfish to think that they sacrificed themselves for me. Maybe they couldn't have cared less about me, but did it for the good of everyone overall. But I still feel I would be lessening a part of their victory by giving up. They were brave enough to die for this world I now have the privilege of living in; the least I can do is make my way through it.

I'm not sure where I'm going. I'm stumbling blindly in the dark for a light switch that may or may not even be there. For now, sitting at Hogwarts and helping rebuild it is good enough. But in the long run, I know that it won't be. Some people can go back to their lives after the devastation. They can rebuild and continue. But even if I were capable of picking up the pieces, I'm not sure I'd want to live the life that ended in my fifth year. It was good enough for me then, and I'm not capable of denying that it was a wonderful life I had. However, I've been through so much more now, seen and done more than I ever dreamed, and lost more than I ever imagined possible. To go back to my mundane existence . . . I just can't. It's not enough.

I watch as a silent tear that has escaped my eye rolls down my nose, falls the short distance to the ground, and splashes upon the obsidian stone next to Hermione's name. I sniff and hurriedly wipe my eyes. I trace the minute letters of my friends' names before slowly rising to my feet. I need to return to the castle and help Dumbledore with the repairs and work. My feet don't move, though, and I can't pull my eyes away from the headstone. I've been three people in my almost-eighteen years; I've lived three lives. Two of those lives are buried along with my friends, though the headstone says nothing of the first two phases of Ronald Weasley's existence. The third phase is the one in which I am now. Admittedly, I don't know much about this new world, or about how I intend to survive in it. All I know is that I'll have to create a new place for myself to match the new world in which I live. It won't be easy, and I don't know if I'll succeed.

But at least I have a chance.


End file.
